Title: There Is But Fire
Summary: Sydney/Sark fic set in the not-too-distant future. I'm not sure how to categorize it, other than to say it's somewhere in the Drama/Action/Angst area. This is set several years after the events of 'Resurrection,' and Sydney's in a deep cover post in Berlin. A year into her mission there, a familiar face shows up and she finds herself re-evaluating her life once again.
Rating: R, Violence, Sexual Situations
Ships: Sark/Sydney, (Sarkney)
Spoilers: Anything from Season Three is fair game.
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters. I write fanfic for the reading pleasure of myself and others, and because I love 'Alias' - well, that, and because procrastination makes the world go 'round. ;-)
Thanks: To all of my beta readers and those who have provided encouragement of various kinds; This means big smooches are in order for Lunasky, Cognacgirl, Gabby, Eretria, Nat, and Nu.
Feedback: Actually, I think feedback makes the world 'go round. I crave it, I live it, I can't get enough of it. Please feel free to email me if you've enjoyed what you've read.

Part 3

They walk together, feet crunching against the snow that lines their paths. Most of the trees and shrubs are bare, and their calm voices appear almost intrusive against the landscape. Still, they know no one will overhear them; silence blankets their surroundings.

"Five years ago, as you know," he begins, "I escaped from CIA custody. There was an accident involving the security van that was transporting me from one facility to another."

"An accident?" It's only a half-question, mostly a confirmation. She wonders how accidental it truly was.

The corners of his mouth turn gently upward, signaling that he understands this. "Yes," is all he will answer there for now. "It wasn't long after that, when I found out that Sloane and Nadia had perished," he tells her, and she experiences a moment of regret and sadness as she remembers the time when she herself learned of their deaths.

Their search for Rambaldi's mythic 'Sphere of Light' had taken Sloane and her sister literally to the ends of the Earth, to the vast and forbidding expanse of Antarctica. An ice shelf had collapsed underneath them, or so the reports had said. They were never seen again, and any other trace of knowledge of the Sphere had vanished with them.

Sydney's eyes close for a moment as she remembers, turning away her downcast expression. She'd been acquainted with her sister for such a short while, and whatever relief or satisfaction she had felt over Sloane's death was quickly overshadowed by the knowledge that she would never truly know her sister. It's not a memory she chooses to return to very often.

She clears her throat, moving her thoughts along and urging Sark to continue. "There was the fire."

His eyebrows lift for a moment. "Yes, the fire. I know that was reportedly an accident as well, but I knew the real story behind it." He slips his hands into his coat pockets as he talks. "There was already a great deal of unrest within the Covenant at that time. Bomani had been executed a few months earlier. Cole's attempts at control had gained ground in North America but were still tenuous in other cells. Lauren's death was also a setback." His pauses in his words for a moment, and Sydney looks at him only briefly. He doesn't meet her gaze, concentrating instead on the path ahead and the rest of his story.

"At the time I had thought that the North American cell was an isolated situation, and that if I was able to rise within it, there would be even broader authority to be claimed," he continued. "However, after Sloane disappeared it was clearer to me how chaotic Covenant operations had become. The European and Asiatic cells had been experiencing similar problems, and without Rambaldi as a powerful goal..." he trailed off for a moment.

"In short, the Covenant was fragmenting," he said. "There was very little stability. At that time, I had a contact in Taipei who informed me of a meeting that was happening between several higher echelon Covenant operatives. I decided to attend and observe from behind the scenes. It was a private club and I managed to arrange for surveillance throughout the meeting.

"It didn't take long for it to become clear how the meeting was progressing. There was very little constructive dialogue, to say the least, and the participants became increasingly agitated. I was beginning to wonder if there would be an opportunity to interrupt when the opportunity was taken from me. Two of the Asiatic members drew concealed weapons, and before anyone else could react, a hidden sniper fired on the rest of the party. The meeting had simply been a cover for an orchestrated hit - a vicious coup."

He takes in a breath and exhales, pausing as he collects his memories further. Sydney's fingers grow chilled inside her gloves and she closes and opens her hands to restore the circulation.

"I'm still not sure if the fire was started purposefully or by accident," Sark adds. "In any case it was only within minutes that the blaze started."

Sydney continues to listen, and turns back to look at him as he explained this. She tries to picture what that night must have been like, and then reminds herself how easily he must have accomplished something like that. He'd done worse things, she was well aware - and so had she, for that matter.

As her thoughts come into sharper focus she finds more questions coming to her. "But, you still survived."

"Indeed. The coup leaders were fast, but I intercepted them before they could leave the club. I eliminated them, stole their portfolios, and that was the end of Julian Sark."

"And the Covenant still crumbled after that night," she adds. "The CIA couldn't make sense of it for days afterwards."

"True," he nods. "And yes, I'm sure it was confusing."

Her brow furrows as she considers how to press him further. But she doesn't need to. He continues to explain, a wry expression on his face. He's enjoying this now, she can tell.

"I really couldn't have planned it better if I'd tried. Within the Covenant group that met that night, there was a young Australian man whose superiors were the same men who orchestrated the attack."

"Let me guess," she interrupts. "Tall, slim, blond hair..."

"Precisely," he confirms for her. "I believe it was your Agents who first assigned my identity to his body. It did give me a certain amount of pleasure to learn that I was presumed dead - it made my transition into a new identity that much easier."

Sydney stops in her tracks, then, and he pauses a step or two ahead of her and turns to face her. They've stopped near one of the park's gazebos, and as she speaks she leans up against the edge of its arched entrance. He stands facing her from the other side.

"You witnessed the single-handed destruction of the entire Covenant leadership, gained access to their finances, avoided investigation by the CIA or anyone else for that matter...and then you simply walked away?"

"In a word, yes."

She's trying to think of what to say next, a little confused at this. This doesn't sound like the opportunistic assassin she once thought she knew. Still, now she's starting to understand why he's seemed somewhat different from the man she knew before.

"Sydney, in our line of work one doesn't refuse a second chance," he reasons. "Or a third, or fourth, for that matter. At the time I'd just spent a year of supposed freedom being blackmailed by the Covenant, and then trying to gain back whatever authority my inheritance could possibly give me. But there was nowhere else to go then, not after Sloane's death and not after such an enormous loss of purpose.

"What happened in Taipei gave me an escape route, and a very lucrative one at that. I immediately set about transferring funds and liquidating what assets I could, and abandoned everything else. For a while I moved around eastern Europe and Asia - a year or two, perhaps a little longer than that. When I was confident Evan Crane wouldn't be recognized in the English-speaking world, I moved back to England."

He takes a small step towards her, waiting, apparently at a loss as to what else to offer her. She's reminded of their confrontation in his apartment on that first night between them, when she questioned his motivations and he challenged her right back in return.

"Still looking for something else?" he asks, as if provoking her once more.

It's her turn to acknowledge this, and she shrugs a little. "Maybe I am," she admits. Even as she says this she asks herself again what sort of situation she has gotten herself into. Here she stands with this man, calmly reviewing life histories as if some sort of bizarre professional reunion is taking place.

Sydney raises a hand to brush away a few errant strands of hair from her face, thinking. This is the second time he's been willing to reveal more of his past to her, and although she knows she should return the gesture, she's not sure exactly where to begin. She also suspects that whatever she might have to disclose will be far less surprising than anything he has already told her, and that makes her feel vulnerable in a way she hasn't experienced in a long time.

"I suppose I could ask you the same thing," she offers. "Why would you explain all of this to me if you weren't expecting me to do the same?"

Sark doesn't respond with words, at least not yet. He simply looks back at her, waiting, as if there has never been any doubt that she would have answered. And in truth, that silence is what gives her the final push over the edge; the emptiness waiting to be filled.

"I never left the CIA," she says finally, her voice quiet but calm.

He blinks, nods back. "I suspected as much."

At his answer, she feels an unexpected warmth flare at her cheeks that she knows is frustration. Rationally, she has known for months how likely this was, and yet to hear him say as much returns her so quickly to the same sense of isolation she knew before. Of course he already knew that. Her world suddenly seems very small, again.

Still, she pushes ahead, the need to explain is suddenly too strong. It's been so long since she revisited this part of her life with anyone who would listen so carefully.

Sydney swallows, steeling herself. "It was easy for me to do, for a while," she says, as she takes a few steps forward. She moves past him, looking over her shoulder and inviting him to continue next to her. He does so, a thoughtful expression on his face, and lets her tell whatever piece of her story she's willing to tell.

"After Sloane, and Nadia..." she shrugs a little at this, not needing to explain further what she means. "I returned to work willingly, thinking it would help me try to make sense of things. And it did, then. I started to think that it was how my life was supposed to be - what it would always be like.

"Vaughn and I were married a few months later," she adds, her gaze falling, intent on the path a few paces ahead. "And that was good, too, for a while."

For a moment her face takes on a relaxed, almost nostalgic expression. There are some things she doesn't mind remembering. "We were both promoted, started going on fewer missions. I could choose which ones I wanted to take myself, and which ones I wanted to co-ordinate on and stay behind. There was more desk work, and then more meetings."

"But you chose to come here, eventually," he observes, pressing her a little.

"Yes, eventually." She sighs, pushing back her hair after a breeze travels past them. A minute passes in silence as she decides where to continue. "I had always thought we would have children," she explains. "So did Vaughn. The timing was right, and we tried." She shakes her head. "We probably tried for almost a year, and nothing. I finally visited a specialist and they told me how low my chances were, particularly after what happened when the Covenant took me. They said I was most likely barren."

The scar across her abdomen has faded just slightly in the many years since she received it, and although most days she pays it the same slight attention as the rest of her memories of her life before, it's still there, nonetheless. It will never be something she will be able to forget.

"There was a while when I spent a lot of energy being angry, again. I was mad at the Covenant all over again for what they'd done to me, at Rambaldi for inventing that Prophecy that seemed to still control my life."

For a moment she glances over at Sark and thinks she sees a flicker of recognition, but then it passes and once again his expression reflects only his patient attention to her words.

"In any case, Vaughn and I started to have a hard time after that. I kept putting more and more energy into my work at the CIA; it was the only thing I knew how to do. And then, one day, I came home and realized that, whatever we had together, it wasn't a marriage." She takes in a breath, collecting her thoughts, and then shrugs again. "I always thought that when a relationship ends, it must be because of some single event or argument or infidelity. As it turned out, it wasn't so much about what happened as what didn't happen.

"We'd had so long to try to make it work and had gotten used to fighting so many obstacles...I don't know, maybe in the end that was what we needed to convince ourselves. It was as if we'd stopped trying to prove how much we belonged with each other. We didn't fight or debate or argue, nothing like that. Both of us knew it had ended, and we separated soon after. A few months after the divorce was finalized, I found out they were looking for someone to send to Berlin, and I did everything I could to get the assignment."

Sydney brings herself to meet his gaze again, curious at what he thinks, now. His brow was creased slightly in understanding, and now when he turns to look back at her it is with such an expression of clarity that she pauses again in response. In fact, his lips are curved gently in a satisfied smile, and confusion washes over her.

She feels suddenly numb. Even after all this time, there's a part of her that's still painfully hurt that her life with Vaughn didn't turn out the way it was supposed to, and by God she doesn't need him to remind her of that. "Does this amuse you?" she challenges him.

He shakes his head immediately, stepping towards her once again to close the gap between them. "Not at all. On the contrary, I think it's extraordinary." His head shakes again, more gently this time. "We're not so different, Sydney, not really."

"I don't understand what you mean," she says, uncertain now.

"Don't you see?" he asks, his expression impossibly light. "What Taipei was for me, Berlin is for you. We both had our second chances, and we've taken them."

It's the first time anyone has framed her life in this way, before, but now that he's said it she realizes its truth. Even so, there's something else that still pulls at her. "All this time," she says, "You knew what I was doing here, and you never said anything? You never thought it would be a threat to you?"

He exhales again, slowly, as if carefully considering his answer. "At first, yes. It was certainly a possibility. But then I added up what was happening in the operations and how long you'd been there and concluded that your target must be Faber himself. And of course you couldn't have anticipated my arrival, so I was sure the element of surprise would play to my advantage."

She's more than a little startled to hear him talking like this. Suddenly it's as though their entire relationship could be summarized according to strategy and espionage, and she doesn't know what to think, now.

He takes a step closer to her, as if trying to explain himself before she has the chance to ask these questions. "All I'm saying is that I guessed that my presence was not involved in your immediate goal, whatever it was - or is," he adds pointedly. "And to be honest, I rather preferred to have a positive working relationship with you than an antagonistic one."

She arches an eyebrow, appraising him. "Profit?"

He stiffens, just slightly. "I'm sure that didn't hurt, but actually I was thinking more along the lines of professional respect."

This answer impresses her again, and she experiences a moment of guilt for assuming so easily that his motivations were entirely materialistic.

Sark continues. "Sydney, even when you and I opposed each other, I never treated you with disdain. I was only ever intrigued by you. You had every reason to let yourself become broken and defeated, but you never gave in to any of it." He shakes his head again, and his gaze shifts away from her.

"The only conclusion I've ever come to," he says then, "Is that there are no sides in this game that we're in - not really. It's all one chaotic and strange kind of order, and while there are many players to be reckoned with, and desires to be tallied, and hierarchies to be scaled... I don't believe you and I were ever meant to always stand in different corners of this world. I never did. And the reason you had my respect and my admiration when I came to this place is because you never lost them to begin with. You always had them."

As he speaks Sydney finds herself agreeing with more and more of what he says, and arriving at a kind of understanding within herself. She doesn't feel isolated any more, not at all. Instead she feels some small vein of hope start to course through her, and in answer she can only stand and look back at him in wonder. Sark reaches for her hands, taking both of them in his and warming them further through her gloves. Words come to her, finally.

"Before you came, I felt like I was waiting...always waiting for something to happen," she tells him. He watches her, listens. "I don't feel that way any more. I don't ever want to feel that way again, not if I have a choice," she admits, her lips quivering a little in the brisk air.

She can tell he must want to say something further, but then just as suddenly as that sense of comfort descended on her, she feels a twinge of bittersweet longing. It strikes her so immediately she can only shut her eyes closed before him, and pull away a gloved hand to press across her mouth.

Sark reaches for her, his breath close enough to warm her cheek, and his voice strong enough to convey his concern. "Sydney..."

"You see, it's just that you're so different from him," she interrupts him, voice wavering. "I loved him for so many years. I loved him so much it was almost painful for me. And yet...when I'm with you, I want you so much that it scares me," she reveals finally as she has to swallow against the lump in her throat.

His hands rise to her face, just as his expression shifts again towards something that hints at both frustration and compassion. His fingers brush along her hair and cheek, and she lifts her hands to rest on top of his. "You're not the only one who feels that way, you know," he tells her. "And I must say... it's a fear that I'm still getting used to."

Sydney watches him, assessing every word and gesture and hidden vulnerability, and comes to understand how he has indeed given her his trust, and how easily he could be undone by it. Even as she considers this she longs to be able to give him everything he has given her, wishes she could unlock that full measure of trust and give it to him as easily as she has given the rest of herself.

She leans into him, wrapping her arms around him and resting her cheek on his shoulder, and starts to believe again that such things are possible.

* * * * *

They walk together a while longer, and the silence that surrounds them finds Sydney surprisingly at peace. That night, she leads him to her own apartment for the first time, and pours him a drink from the bottle of Bourbon she'd bought so many nights ago and had yet to open.

He sips from it gladly, and when she realizes he cannot take his eyes away from her she feels herself blushing, and is at a loss to explain why. She takes her own glass and her own sip of the golden liquid, swallows and feels it flame in her throat and down to her belly, and her mouth waters a little in anticipation of more.

She starts telling him something about the building, how old it is and how she found it in the first place, but her voice trails off when he comes to stand next to her; the warmth of his body radiates and finds all of her senses at once. It's not the apartment or the alcohol or even her words that he cares for now. He takes her hand, pressing her lips across her fingers and smiling at her in the way she has come to know so intimately.

Today he has revealed so much more of himself to her, so much more of Julian Sark than she knew before. Her own secrets have been laid bare to him and she has come away unscathed, instead feeling more bound to him than ever. These thoughts occupy her and make her pause when she turns to face him again. As she meets his gaze he pauses, as if startled by her expression.

So many times she has stood with him, like this, and been at a loss to describe how she feels. Definition still escapes her now, despite the emotion that overpowers her when she is with him. And not only does she realize this now, but she finds herself at a loss to remember another time in her life when she has felt just this way. Perhaps this is what love is, a voice tells her in her mind.

The thought startles her, enough for her to withdraw her hand and hesitate. She looks back at her reflection in the window and watches him step towards her again. Her eyes blink back furiously at a glimmer of moisture that has suddenly gathered, and her arms wrap around her waist.

His hands come to rest at her hips, as he leans his temple cautiously against hers. Her hands shift slightly, clasping his once again, and she swallows.

"Sydney, what is it?" he asks her in a near-whisper, his voice low and resonant.

Her answer stops in her throat, and she can't begin to think of the words to explain it to him. She's already having trouble explaining to herself - how she could have come to feel this way for him, and why, and what it might mean.

And so she doesn't answer just yet; instead she turns in his arms to press her lips against his. After a brief hesitation, and what she can only guess is debate over whether to press her further, he kisses her back just as fiercely. He pulls her to him, plunging his hands into her hair and letting them roam along her body. His lips part from hers and plant kisses along her cheek, encountering a hint of dampness at her eye and making him pause there ever so slightly.

She lets his lips travel along her skin as far as they can, along her neck and torso until he raises them once more to her mouth, plundering and seeking and searching for response. His tongue strokes against hers and she can still taste the Bourbon, and her fingers thread through his hair and pull him even closer. As he wraps his arms around her she does the same for him, responding so deeply and so easily she cannot understand how she ever knew anything but this.

* * * * *

Few words pass between them, on most days. Whatever new bond they have chosen for themselves appears virtually unspoken, often revealing itself in brief gestures or expressions.

Rationally, Sydney knows that their affair can only work in her favour, given the story they first told Faber. Irrationally, she knows how suddenly she has become accustomed to the company of Julian Sark, and how one glance from him across a crowded room calls up instant memories and makes her forget everything else.

Rationally, she asks herself how long they will be able to carry on like this, since inevitably her CIA assignment will once again be set in motion, and her charade will need to be made clear. Irrationally, she begins to wonder how deeply this assignment truly matters to her.

* * * * *

There are days, still, when she cannot help but look back. It's a habit she began after four or five months away; She'd stopped it for a while but now feels the need to look back, however briefly.

She searches for him, finds out what small details are available to a woman with her passcodes and encrypted server access. She can't help herself. In the nightclub that fall, when her father told her Vaughn was transferred to Langley, it wasn't the news of the transfer that surprised her the most; she already knew about that. What she hadn't known was that Vaughn had requested the transfer himself.

Since that November night she hasn't given this other man - partner, lover, husband, friend - another thought. And yet one day, one cold day in January, she finds herself wondering, wanting a hint of the life she left behind and the people whose very appearance she's nearly forgotten.

What she finds isn't a complete surprise - indeed, she'd come to expect it one day or another. Nevertheless, she feels her hands freeze above the keyboard as she reads the marriage notice for Michael Vaughn and Melissa Lee, a licensed medical doctor who works for the State Department.

She stands up, shutting the laptop closed.

She won't search again.

* * * * *

They're together late one evening early in the new year. The cold wind swirls again outside and leaves Sydney with pink cheeks when she arrives at Sark's door. He kisses her long and deeply in greeting, in the way that makes her almost forget where she is and the job she was doing earlier that day. In the last week she's been sent out twice on Faber's behalf, and although she's nearly exhausted she feels her energy returning now.

Inside, he gestures towards the living room and she notices the fire burning in the fire place, something they've only tried once before. She smiles back at him, a calm and comfortable expression, and slips her hand into his as he leads her inside. She's feeling warmer by the second.

He leaves her at the dining table to step over to the fridge, pulling out a bottle of white wine. She's brought olives, something she's discovered lately that he likes. He uncorks the chilled bottle and searches for glasses.

They have become companions, she sees now. As she thinks back on their time together and the hesitation that first made her pause, it all seems so strange that they would have started that way. When she's with him now she can never truly ignore their circumstances, as much as she might like to - still, there is such desire, and a protective fierceness she never expected.

Sydney watches him pour her a glass of wine, and then listens to him start to tell her about the dinner he has planned for them. That thought warms her further, and she smiles gently back at him although he cannot see it.

She opens one of the small containers she has brought and pulls out an olive, tasting it. When he comes back to her and gives her the glass of wine she takes it, and offers him the other half of the olive. He lowers his mouth to her hand, biting into the olive and enjoying the flavour. His lips linger for a moment, tasting the oil still left on her fingers.

She smiles back, reading the hungry expression he returns to her, and presses a kiss onto his lips. There she tastes the olive and the wine, and the heady sensation of his mouth pressed against hers still never fails to make her go weak in the knees.

But she takes her seat on one of the kitchen stools, and knows how it must frustrate him when she insists that he finish whatever he's doing and be patient. She sips from her wine and watches him as he works, responding mildly with whatever snippets of conversation he can draw out of her. His hands are as skilled in the kitchen as anywhere else, and the meal is finished and ready before she can find a way to tease him further.

As they eat he watches her enjoy every bite, but although the food is wonderful it doesn't compare at all with the company she enjoys it with. At that moment, she feels the most content that she has felt in years, and whatever memories she had that might have come close, are already being replaced in her mind. She craves nothing else but what is here, now.

Later she takes her turn and cleans up afterwards, enjoying his amused expression as he watches her run soapy water and a scrub brush across the few pots and pans and plates that they have used. She takes her time, working patiently and noting the expression on his face.

They don't bother with dessert, or music, or wine, or anything else. Every other need has been satiated except one, and she's not surprised or daunted in the least when she steps out of his kitchen and his arms close immediately around her. Their clothes can't come off fast enough, and soon there is no time or need to make it as far as the bedroom.

The fire still glows in the fireplace and its light and warmth are almost an afterthought. They come together fiercely, aching for each other's touch. She longs as strongly as ever to feel him against her, inside of her, and the force of their passion all but silences her.

She offers him all that she is, all that she can give to him; he meets her desire at every step, every touch, each caress and heated breath. She screams his name only seconds before he does the same for her, driving her to the edge and then over it completely as they grasp at each other, as though nothing else has ever mattered.

* * * * *

The fire is still warm against their skin a short while later, and they lie next to each other with hands and arms still entwined. Her breathing has slowed once more, resuming that shallow and relaxed rhythm that so often accompanies sleep. But both of them still lie awake, absorbed in the other's company.

"I have a confession to make," he says, interrupting their reverie and propping himself up on one elbow and looking down at her.

"Mm?" Sydney's stretched out underneath their blankets, the firelight glinting across them and making her skin glow. At first she's still relaxed enough not to understand the seriousness in his voice. But as she turns to look at him she sees his expression and knows he isn't playing. "What is it?" There's a note of concern in her voice.

His gaze shifts for a moment before he looks back at her and starts to elaborate. "About that first night between us, when you came to me and asked me why I was here in the first place..."

Her interest is piqued, to say the least, and she turns her body to face him as he continues. "What are you talking about?" She feels the swell of concern start to knot into anxiety in the pit of her stomach.

Sark takes in a breath and exhales again, slowly. "The truth is, I wasn't completely honest when I said I had no particular agenda in choosing to work with Faber," he admits.

Tension returns to her altogether then as she registers this, making her sit slowly upright in dawning apprehension. "What do you mean?" She doesn't like having to ask so many questions.

He swallows, leaning up against the pillows they were previously sharing. "Truthfully, I probably would have come here anyhow, but...in the end I came because I found out you were here," he tells her, his gaze lifting to meet hers with the final words of this revelation.

"You see," he continues, "For so many years I stared at this picture that someone drew five hundred years ago, and asked myself if it could truly be your face that looked back at me," he tells her.

As he speaks, Sydney can only watch him in wonder, curious at what exactly he means by this. She's sitting with her knees drawn up to her chest and a blanket pulled up to her shoulders, and as he begins to reveal this tale to her she can feel his touch along the bare curve of her back. His fingers stroke the rhythm of his words, a gesture more reassuring than anything he could say to her.

Since Sark first joined Faber - and especially over the winter months since Sydney's narrow escape and the early days of their intimacy, the two of them have gradually revealed more about themselves to each other. She looks into the fire as he continues to speak, wondering what else he could possibly say to her that she hasn't heard already. But she's tethered to him, his touch somehow electric and gentle at the same time.

And he begins to tell her - or rather he continues to tell her, finishing the story they began on that first night between them.

* * * * *

He knew that her marriage had failed, had heard rumours that her position within the CIA was unstable.

When he'd found out how Sloane and Nadia had perished in their search for the Sphere of Light, an anger had come over him, borne of frustration and indignation that so much of what he had done now held no direction or purpose. Sloane vanished and so did his records. All the years Sark had spent working with Irina, and then Sloane, working towards what he thought was a powerful goal... All that was now lost.

That sense of having no direction was what drew Sark towards the position in which he found himself now. He could make use of the only skills he knew he could rely upon, and had indeed been truthful when he'd explained that to her.

As Sydney too had discovered, the Rambaldi quest now existed largely in memory. In the eyes of the CIA, Rambaldi was a failed objective, and there was the occasional moment when she knew they considered her a potential security risk. Officially, the CIA had told her they did not consider her a threat, nor were they able to verify what it meant if she was indeed the 'Chosen One' from the Prophecy.

But still, Sydney herself had known those words couldn't be completely true. She saw the way some of her superiors looked at her whenever someone mentioned Rambaldi, even as a joke. She knew that they still wondered about her. Indeed, as she had already begun tell him... That atmosphere had made it all the more effortless for her to request the assignment to Berlin, and here she was on the verge of folding her whole assignment if the CIA couldn't find a way to breach Faber's system.

For Sark, who had spent most of his career in the service of those who believed in the works of Rambaldi, such theories and histories were not easily banished. Even without any of the same equipment or documents he'd had before, he couldn't forget about the projects, not completely. And Sydney Bristow somehow existed at the centre of it all, and as a result he had never been able to look at her and not wonder what it all meant.

Prophecy or no Prophecy, he believed that the strength and passion she could possess were immeasurable, if only she would allow herself to accept them. And if he was to spend so many years of his life in the company and employ of those such as Irina Derevko, Arvin Sloane, McKenas Cole...and even Johannes Faber...then by God he wanted the chance to spend some of them with Sydney Bristow.

Nevertheless, until the day arrived in Faber's office and he watched Sydney walk in to greet him, Sark had started to think that perhaps Rambaldi really was worth giving up. He'd started to re-think any idea of a Prophecy or even that he would ever see Sydney's face again - whether on paper or in person. And then she walked back into his life, and he felt the immediacy of her presence and the defiance of her beauty, and felt that whatever faith he had would be thrown into question all over again.

For from where he'd stood then he could read the emotion behind her shell of skill, and the exhaustion in her spirit. Whatever she was feeling, the proximity of it had startled him. He'd felt as though the only person in the world who could possibly stand as his equal was directly in front of him. And he had kissed her hand as though it was the only way in the world to greet such a woman, and known he would never leave Faber's operation as long as she was there with him.

* * * * *

She sits silently, still watching the fire as she has done throughout his explanation of these events, and of the connection between her and Rambaldi that she thought she'd managed to escape.

"Why didn't you tell me any of this before? Why didn't you tell me that night when I came to see you? Or that day in the park?" She feels conflicted, and more than a little angry at this sudden intrusion of Rambaldi into her life - let alone into this relationship that's taken her this long to finally believe in.

"Because I knew what you'd been through that day, and before, and I was afraid if I told you that much more you'd walk away and I'd never see you again." His voice reveals his honesty, but he isn't emotional or fearful, as far as she can tell. He's simply telling her something he's never told her before, and needing her to understand.

Her breath escapes her in a loud exhalation, and she rests her head in her hands.

"I thought I was finished with it all," she says, brushing her hair away from her face. "With Rambaldi. And then every time I think that, something happens that reminds me of it again, and I realize I won't ever really be finished with it...And I can't live that way forever," she adds finally.

She turns to him, facing her body toward his and looking back with a determined expression. "Tell me," she says. "I need to know if any of it was ever true," she demands without any further explanation. Her voice wavers slightly, as if restrained. "The Prophecy, the Chosen One, the Passenger...Was it all just myth? Was any of it real?"

He sits up to face her, too, as if unprepared for the force of her reaction. "You never asked me any of this before."

She shakes her head. "I never wanted to believe any of it, before. I never needed to."

His expression shows his confusion. "You never needed to, until now?"

"When I chose to come to Berlin...I admit, it was partly because I wanted to get away, to try to start fresh. But I think, even more than that, I needed something I could control. There were so many things that happened to change my life, before, that all revolved around Rambaldi and his convoluted prophecies," she says. "It was too much, eventually, more than I could handle. I needed to do something that was my decision and not that of some five hundred-year-old dead man."

He hesitates, unsure where to start, and finally shakes his head, leaning his elbows on his knees. "I don't know," is the only answer he can give her then.

She doesn't answer him, simply turns away back towards the fire, watching the light for a moment. And then, just as abruptly as he began his confession, she stands up and begins searching for her clothes.

Sark watches her for half a moment in startled skepticism, in disbelief that she would actually leave after a declaration such as this; she's stayed with him for so many nights through so many questions and doubts and fears, and now after such a truthful revelation she's going to leave.

"Sydney, wait..." he starts then, following her actions and pulling on his trousers that lie nearby. "There's more to talk about, here..."

She's ahead of him, and is already slipping on her sweater above her jeans, and reaching for her boots. "Don't," she stops him, her tone both decisive and defensive.

He's surprised at her, that much she can tell. After so many moments of shared intimacy she can only imagine the confusion that she will create by running away from this conversation. But she doesn't care. In her mind as well there is only confusion, and all she can feel is anger and indignation. Fucking Rambaldi.

She's throwing her coat over her arm and grabbing her handbag, and she's made it halfway towards the door before he reaches her and stops her. His hand touches her arm and she shrugs it away. Finally, she turns to him again, knowing the pained expression she must be showing him.

"I can't do this, Sark. Not now, not with you...Not after everything that's happened..." Her words trail off and one hand gestures at the air. She doesn't know how to begin to explain to him what's thinking; she can't even explain it to herself.

"Sydney," he starts again, stepping closer to her. "I must have turned the world upside down, trying to understand why Rambaldi chose you," he tells her. "It was Sloane who led the project, but there were many times when that distinction was irrelevant to me. Since that parchment was uncovered, not a year of my career before went by when I did not work to find out why you were meant to stand at the centre of his Prophecy."

"I never asked for any of this," she says, her voice wavering, breaking the silence. "Why me? Why would he choose me?"

He sighs, a shallow breath. "I wish I knew," is all he can offer. "I've been trying to make sense of it, myself." He turns towards her again. "You're not the only one who feels helpless in all of this."

She looks down at her hands, skeptical. Her mind races, and she can't figure out what she feels right now. The hesitation she thought had passed has returned to her stronger than ever, and even as she stands across from this man who has done so much for her, she feels paralysed. Anger still burns inside of her; frustration at feeling so helpless once again. Her coat and bag are weights in her arms, and she doesn't know what to say or do next.

Sark speaks again, trying to give her an answer that will offer more than the unknown. "I suppose the truth is, I don't know if any of it was ever real or not," he answers finally, after a silence. "Perhaps we believed it was real because we said it was."

The quietness returns as she looks back at him again. "I don't know what to say to that," she answers finally.

He shakes his head, shifting closer to her. "You don't need to say anything. Don't go, either, please. Not yet. I didn't tell you any of this to make you afraid, or angry, I only wanted..." he sighs, correcting himself. "I didn't want to keep this from you."

She shrugs her shoulders for a moment, and shakes her head as she searches for words. "I just want to know how it ends," she tells him finally, her voice nearly a whisper.

He pauses, his expression offering her more compassion than she's ever seen from him. "I wish I knew, love," he answers. "I wish I knew."

It's all such a declaration, so much disclosure coming from him, and she knows she should feel glad of it - it's the reciprocation she's wondered about. But the weight of his words is too much all at once, more than she thought she would be able to carry. He's far too calm, too forgiving for her now - she wants him to press her back, fight against what she's just asked him, scream questions at her. Anything to make her believe again that he is infallible, and that it doesn't matter if she can't be strong enough for both of them. And at the same time she doesn't want that strength any more; she wants to escape it and retreat back to the few things she knows are certain.

She hears her breath shake from her in ragged sighs. Suddenly she feels nothing but the need to escape, to run from here and try to forget the things she is going to need to ask him to forgive.

The olives and wine and the fire, and everything else, are forgotten. She doesn't hear the words he calls after her when she rushes past him, clutching her belongings and reaching for the doorknob as if it is a life raft. She opens the door and makes her way through the hallway and down the stairs, hearing only the sound of her own footsteps echoing around her.

* * * * *

The next day at the office is an awkward one, and Sydney finds her attention drifting back to the previous night. Her conversation with Sark has left her shaken, calling up the fears and frustrations she had tried so hard to leave buried.

Sark's still there, at the periphery, keeping his professional distance and saying nothing. Not that he would say anything here anyhow, she reminds herself, and for a brief moment is glad of the anonymity of her covert post. For once, Faber's operation provides an almost reassuring escape route, and she does everything she can to keep her thoughts focussed on the tasks she needs to do.

Nonetheless, it doesn't help that Faber's still watching her as closely as ever. That's something that hasn't changed - his word on that has held, since that day Sark helped her outrun Faber's men. Except this time, she notices the hinted curiosity in his glance, the smug appearance of propriety and intuition. On any other day she could move right past it and be comforted - fuelled, even - by the knowledge that she possesses and the reassurance of her newfound companion. But today he turns that glance towards her and she wants nothing else but to smack her hand across his cheek and wipe the smirk from Johannes Faber's face.

He calls her into his office and hands her a briefing folder.

"I need someone to go to Hamburg and check in on a few things. Nothing major. I'd do it myself if I wasn't already quite preoccupied with the arrangements in New York."

"Of course," she answers, glancing at the documents. There isn't even a full twenty-four hours worth of work here.

"Normally I'd send the two of you together, but I don't think that will be necessary this time," he tells her, a curious glint in his eye. He doesn't need to mention Sark's name, for her to know whom he's referring to.

Sydney looks up from the folder, restraining the defensive reaction she feels against his arrogance. "No, I don't think this will be too much trouble at all. I don't mind going alone." She blinks slowly, her composure remaining steady. The folder falls closed in her hands and lets it rest in the crook of her arm.

He waits for a moment before nodding back to her, as if in triumphant salutation of his observation. "Excellent," he says airily. "Be sure to report back in when you return. I want to know if anything is out of place."

"Certainly," she answers, without a smile or additional confirmation. "See you then." She turns and leaves briskly,

* * * * *

When Faber sends her to Hamburg the next day, she leaves willingly. She reviews shipping lists and hands over wrapped packets of Euros, and all the while she can hardly concentrate on the tasks. Her mind is elsewhere.

The day after that she's been given very little to do, and so she finds herself taking a late afternoon stroll along die Linden and contemplating the January scene. She knows very well that she's avoiding Sark, and is comfortable with that for the moment. She's trying to figure out what bothered her the most about his words, trying to make sense of how it all fits into her own life and what she knows.

For a half an hour she walks the paths, her leisurely pace concealing the turbulence of her thoughts. After a while she stops at one of the empty benches beneath the trees and sits. One hand lifts to her forehead and she leans into it, thinking.

Is it too much to believe that he should be so fascinated by her? To believe that he should feel the need to protect her, even here? Or is it not so much a need as a desire? And what if Rambaldi's works really aren't completely dormant - what will happen if someone finds his path again and begins to follow it to her?

She covers her face with her hands, contemplating all of these questions. And still, beneath the surface of these lies another set of doubts, ones she is only now starting to see. Perhaps it's not so much the intrusion of Rambaldi that bothers her; perhaps it's the very idea that the implications of Rambaldi's works have allowed her to become such a central figure in another person's life.

As she revisits their conversations yet one more time, she begins to see through the history and the agendas, and the alliances, and all the different players, and starts to see his words for what they have truly been. And surprisingly, what she sees holds promise. For in the place of duplicity she sees devotion, and along with his cunning and independence and skill, there is challenge, and strength, and passion.

It's been three days since that last night between them, and already she feels herself longing for his touch, and an ache settling in her chest. And then suddenly, more than anything else, all she can think about are the words she left him with. I want to know how it ends, she'd said. I still do. She also knows still, somehow, that she will find a way to succeed in her mission here and that Faber will fall. Any less would mean failure, and she is not prepared to accept that. As she is reminded of this she considers for the first time how these different paths might meet, or indeed, if they are even supposed to.

* * * * *

Early the next morning she visits the Berliner Volksbank and accesses the secure safe deposit boxes she has used before. Once she's left alone with the box whose number she memorized a couple of months ago, she takes a seat and reviews the contents.

Inside are the documents her CIA contacts have left for her most recently, and sitting on the very top is a piece of paper with instructions she'd almost given up on receiving. The page holds tentative instructions for the final infiltration and destruction of Johannes Faber's crime network, operating out of both Berlin and New York City.

Her breath catches in her throat as she reads and re-reads this page. With shaking fingers she takes the rest of the documents and rifles through them, reading as fast as she can. As she reads, her mind races, and by the time she leaves the bank she is already formulating a response. She glances at her watch and starts to plan.

* * * * *

"But lest you are my enemy,
I must enquire."

"O no, my dear, let all that be;
What matter, so there is but fire
In you, in me?"

~v3, 'The Mask'

* * * * *

It's been several days since she's seen Sark, and he hasn't tried to contact her either. Part of her wonders what he's thinking about all of this, but at the same time she doesn't need or want to ask.

She waits for him now near the railroad tracks, far west of the city where the canal crosses the tracks and continues through a wide, forested expanse. It's dark, and close to midnight, and all of her senses are on the highest alert. As she leans against her car and watches the road, she finally sees his car pull up behind hers. She stands up straight and walks around towards him.

His hands are tucked into the pockets of his jacket, and as she watches him approach she takes in the honesty in his expression. Still, any concern is underwritten by the determination that lies beneath.

She pauses, stepping one or two paces towards him as he stops in front of her. At first neither of them speak, as if they are waiting to see what the other has to say. Sydney breaks the silence.

"I'm not angry at you," she says first, realizing the truth of those words more completely now that she has spoken them. "Believe me when I tell you that. I'm not thrilled at the idea that Rambaldi's legacies and influence are still out there somewhere, waiting to change my life again." Her head shakes. "Here, with you... I thought I'd managed to leave it behind, and even though I know I was wrong to think that, it's still hard for me to accept."

"I never wanted you to feel threatened," he says after a moment's pause. "I know how strange it must seem for me to say that, even now, but it's true."

"I know," she answers simply. There is more that she could say, but she holds those words back - they're not the ones she wants to return to just now. Sydney's gaze lowers for a moment, as she collects her thoughts and then looks back and speaks again. "You told me that when you came here you knew that you wouldn't leave Faber's operation as long as I was there," she says.

He nods. "Yes, I did."

"Is that still true? What I mean is...if I leave, would you consider leaving with me? Even if it meant destroying Faber's entire operation?"

What she's asking him is the most she could ever offer him, and is the only step she wants to take now. There are no other options she can arrive at besides this one, and the few seconds between her question and his response are a painful length of time to wait.

He doesn't wait long, and steps closer to her as he answers. "Absolutely."

Her breath escapes her in a ragged sigh, and the slightest hint of a smile plays at her lips. "I was hoping you'd say that," she says.

"To be honest, I was rather wondering if you would ask," he admits. "And while I won't say the profits aren't very enticing," he says, his voice taking on a playful quality, "I must say that you, Sydney Bristow, entice me more," he tells her, as his voice returns to his earlier, more serious tone. "I don't want to lose you."

Sydney's breathless for a moment, listening to this affirmation. There is often so much more beneath the surface of his words than she can see at first, but this time she sees right through them to their very truth, and knows what her answer to him must be.

"I don't want to lose you either."

A moment of silent comprehension passes between them, before they do all that is left to be done, and their lips meet. She's not sure if she leans in first or if he bends to meet her, but nevertheless the kiss is deep, instantly seeking confirmation of their desires and finding an immediate answer. His tongue is rough along hers and her lips, searching and probing, and she kisses him back in earnest.

They part, and her fingers still linger along the edge of his face, tracing the line of his jaw in the dimness. She rests her hand at his chin, and brings her lips to his for a second, brief kiss. When she lifts her lips from his he gathers her in his arms, holding her closely and firmly to him and burying his head in her shoulder.

For a moment she simply lingers in this sensation, sinking into his embrace as if for the last time, and hoping it will still be one of many more to come. Her relief is undeniable, but she isn't finished yet. She breathes in the scent of him - so close to her in the brisk night air that surrounds them - and steels herself to separate herself from him again. As they part fully she takes a step back, removing herself from the temptation to continue this scene. He looks back at her, confused at her sudden distance.

"If we're going to do this, we have to do this together," she tells him, and he returns the same puzzled expression to her.

"Of course, Sydney, but what are you..."

His voice trails off as he watches her turn her head and look back towards her car.

The passenger door opens, and although the evening light that surrounds them is still quite dim, it is enough for him to recognize the figure of Jack Bristow exit the vehicle. The surprise on Sark's face is clear, and he stiffens.

Jack walks towards them and stops next to Sydney, his eyes never leaving his daughter's companion.

"Mr. Sark, it's been quite a long time," he says, as if in greeting.

The younger man can only nod, as he tries to make sense of this new factor in the equation. "Indeed," he answers.

"I'll be brief," Jack tells him. "My trust in you is limited, but thankfully for you, that is a restraint my daughter does not share. If you are indeed the man she describes, then the CIA will be most grateful for your assistance in taking down the operations of a known international criminal."

Sark looks back at her father as if assessing this situation from an entirely new angle. Sydney watches him and feels a pang of anxiety hit her as she clings to the threads of trust she has extended to him. She hopes she will have no reason to doubt them.

"Sydney knows where I stand," he tells Jack, and she closes her eyes for a brief moment and wills the anxiety to pass. Her father exchanges a glance with her then, and she nods back for him to continue. And she stands and listens, as Jack Bristow explains to them what their next steps will be.

* * * * *

A few nights later, the plan has been completely arranged. In another twenty-four hours, if all goes well, Faber's operations will be in tatters, and Karen Sorensen and Evan Crane will no longer exist. Later today, Sark will travel to New York on Faber's behalf, and Sydney will remain in Berlin, and each will initiate their part of the destruct sequence that will allow waiting assault teams to then secure both premises by force.

Simultaneously, giving Faber and his security teams very little time to retaliate, Sydney and Sark will introduce a uniquely engineered computer virus that will attack both networks. As the program works through the system, changing passcodes and deleting files and disabling response mechanisms, it will also activate a link to the CIA's secure server, permanently transferring files out of Faber's network and into the hands of the CIA.

Once this process has been initiated, assault teams will enter the buildings and take over. Still, it will be up to the two of them to withdraw, and avoid becoming Faber's targets during escape.

After both sites have been secured and the CIA is satisfied that they have everything in hand, Sark will remain in custody for a relatively brief length of time, in exchange for his assistance. Even now, with her reassurance, Sydney knows her father had to fight for this amount of trust in Sark. She wonders if he did it more for the CIA, or for her.

Sydney also knows Sark must have held a certain amount of hesitation in agreeing to such a plan, and even now she can't bring herself to think past the takedown itself. All she needs to know is that this part of her life will end, and something else will take its place on the other side.

She and Sark have spent the past couple of days finalizing everything that needs to be arranged, reviewing security protocols and timelines and anything else they can think of. There's nothing left to account for. All they can do is wait, and trust that everything will go according to plan.

The two of them are together now in her apartment, as the early light of dawn filters through her bedroom windows and finds them lying comfortably side by side beneath rumpled sheets. They have slept little, but nevertheless both of them are wide awake. Sydney turns in his arms, looking back at him and meeting his gaze.

Her fingers travel across his face and along his chin and neck, touching and cataloguing and memorizing every part of him that she has come to know. He stretches out a hand, runs fingers through her hair, and then again as she rests her head once more and closes her eyes for a moment. His calming influence has never ceased to amaze her, even after all this time. His hands are skilled in more ways than one, she reminisces with a smile to herself.

"What are you thinking about?" he asks her then, responding to her expression.

She opens her eyes as she forms her answer. "You," she tells him simply, as his fingers continue their stroke, across her cheek and through her hair. "A year ago, I never thought I could ever be here, like this. I never realized what I'd been missing, for so long." Her chest rises and falls with another breath, and she looks up at him, catching her hand in his. She laces her fingers between his, stopping their movement and holding them close. "What are you thinking?"

He listens, leaning imperceptibly closer to her, and brings their linked hands to his chest. "I was thinking about what happens next," he tells her. "After the plan is finished."

She watches him for a moment, believing she understands what he means. But she lets him continue. "What will you do, afterwards?" he asks.

Her head shakes a little as she considers this. In truth, she has chosen not to look much farther than the takedown they will carry out together. They have agreed that after each of them has finished their assigned parts, they will each board planes to London where they will meet afterwards and arrange their next steps. She hasn't wanted to look farther than that, as if drawing a plan too far ahead for the future will invite too much expectation, or end only in disappointment.

"I'm not sure," she admits. "There will be things waiting for me in Los Angeles, I know that. I know the CIA will expect me to come back - my father once hinted at another promotion for me, after Berlin has been taken care of."

"Is that what you want?" he asks this time. It's a fair question, and one that she's carefully avoided until now. But she can't put it off any more.

She lifts her eyebrows slightly. "It would be comforting to return," she allows. "When I first came to Berlin I always thought that going back to L.A. would be the next logical step. Now, I'm not so sure. There isn't as much waiting for me there as there once was." Her gaze turns away from him for a moment, becoming distant. "And still, I know how easily the past would catch up to me if I were back there," she says, indicating the whole spectrum of challenges she has faced there, and with the CIA. In truth, she doesn't know if there's anywhere else she could escape to.

He nods, as if accepting this. Perhaps he has anticipated this answer from her, she wonders. But before she can ask, he releases her hand from his, and sits up.

"I have something for you," he says, reaching for his jacket that has been left slung over a chair next to the bed. From the pocket he pulls out a slim envelope, and then hands it to her.

She sits up as well, observing these actions with curiosity. Her brow furrows slightly as she looks back at him, and then she takes the unexpected offering from his hand. "What is this?"

"Your contingency plan," he tells her plainly, his expression open.

She meets his gaze again and searches for any trace of humour, waiting for him to explain what it really is. But there is no other answer, and so her fingers slip underneath the corner of the envelope's tab and she pulls out the contents. Inside are a few identity papers, including one passport in the name of Renee Brown. Before she can ask for further clarification on these, a key slips out of the envelope and onto her lap. She picks it up, a questioning look in her eye.

"What is all of this for? Why another alias?"

"You might not need it, truthfully, but I believe in taking precautions." He nods towards the object she holds in her hand. "That is the key to a safety deposit box in London," he explains, "and those," he adds, indicating the papers, "are what you will need to access it."

"And why would I need to do that?" This is the first he's told her of any plans like this, and it unsettles her. It is a new addition to the plans they have made together, and a faint stream of concern and confusion starts to flow through her.

"In case something doesn't go according to plan," he tells her, "And we're not able to find each other afterwards, I want to know you'll have something to fall back on."

The very idea isn't something she's ever considered, and yet as soon as he started to explain the contents of the envelope she saw right away that it's exactly the kind of thing he would plan for. She skims her fingers over the papers and the smooth cover of the passport, examines the cold metal key, and wonders at how long he must have had this ready for her to fall back on. In her mind's eye she can picture him arranging it all, and knows instantly how easily the decision must have come to him, and how logical it must have seemed.

And then she takes in the full meaning of his words, and raises her head quickly to meet his eye again. He is as calm as a few moments ago; no question remains in his mind at all.

"We'll meet afterwards," she tells him, as if searching for reassurance. Her hands move into action again, sliding the envelope's contents back inside and closing the flap. She puts down the small bundle in front of them, out of her reach, as if acknowledging its receipt but denying its necessity. "We'll meet afterwards, and decide together what to do next," she tells him resolutely. But her voice is not as steady as she would like, and just then she has trouble meeting his gaze once more.

His fingers come to rest beneath her chin, lifting her face to his. Just as gently, and with equal measure, he brings his lips down on hers. The kiss is slow, and reassuring, and yet she responds as if searching for his mouth with hers. She holds her hands at the back of his neck, her thumbs grazing the line of his jaw after they part. For a moment she simply looks back at him, as if still daring him to contradict her, or allow any further bit of uncertainty to pierce through.

And then she folds her arms around him completely and rests her head against his shoulder, closing her eyes and lingering in the sensation of feeling her skin next to his.

"I know it's going to be dangerous," she admits to him then. "It's just that this is the first time in a long time that I've had anything so close to me that's worth risking," she says, her voice struggling above a whisper. It is the first time in years she can remember being so close and unfaltering in her need for another person.

She feels his breath warm on her shoulder, and his arms tighten around her for another moment. He releases her, then, reaching over to the parcel she has all but discarded. Taking one of her empty and waiting hands, he presses the envelope into her hand and folds her fingers over it, before looking back at her.

"Do you trust me?" As he asks he faces her fully, his eyes looking directly into hers. She can read the authenticity and possessiveness in his expression, as his hands grasp at her arms.

Even after their many months together, this is the first time he's ever asked her this, and yet she knows now without question what her answer is. "Yes, I do," she says unhesitatingly.

She clutches the envelope in her hand, and holds one of his hands in the other. And as she rests against him once more she tells herself that the time that she has waited for has finally come: when a new part of her life will begin, and it holds promise and anticipation even if it is also unknown. Still, as much as she believes the truth of this, all she can do is hold on to him and hope that she will not have to be the first one to let go.

* * * * *

An hour later he is gone again, off to meet his flight, and Sydney steadies herself and prepares for the part that she must now play. She pulls her hair back and dresses with resolute concentration, bringing her mind now to the tasks ahead of her.

She straps her watch across her wrist and starts the countdown, and gathers her handbag and coat as if today is the same as any other day she has worked for Johannes Faber. Before leaving, she lets her gaze linger around the now-silent expanse of her apartment. She cannot take anything with her, but as she looks around she recognizes that there are few material reminders of this place she wishes to keep.

Instead, she will close her apartment door for the last time, and walk down the stairs and down the street with a renewed sense of confidence and exhilaration. As she walks she knows that whatever she desires to keep from her time in this city, she already carries with her.

She won't look back.

* * * * *

By the time she finally makes it to London, less than twenty-four hours have passed since she last saw Sark, but the hours have gone by in a blur and there is little that she can remember clearly.

She recalls the tedious, patient hours of working under Faber's eye, waiting until the pre-arranged time finally arrives. She remembers making herself a cup of coffee and even winking back at Faber with a slight smile as she passed his office, just before the chaos broke loose. The man was self-absorbed enough to smile back, watching her stride as she passed by.

And then the next hour after that is a haze, after alarms began to sound and security teams sprung into action, and then the SWAT team gained entry and the gunfire began. One moment she was fighting back against Faber's guards, and the next moment one of the CIA team recognized her and pressed a vest and pistol into her hands. Then she was slipping the vest over her head and breaking through doors, and running outside through alleys towards her final extraction point.

She jumped into the waiting van and the Agents called in to Base Ops, and she explained everything she could remember. She bit back her frustration when they told her the New York operation was still underway and nothing could be confirmed yet. Even as she watched with pleasure as Faber was escorted away in handcuffs, her relief was tainted by the uncertainty over what would happen next for her.

And several hours later she stands in a London hotel room, her mind trying to make sense of what has just happened. All she longs for now is his presence next to her, and his words of reassurance in her ear.

Sydney dials his number and receives no response, and now all she can do is wait.

* * * * *

The next morning she wakes up alone, with no recollection of when or how she fell asleep. She still wears the same clothes as the day before, and as she starts to glance around she notices her wig and sparse belongings are scattered across the table and armchair from the previous night.

She sits up, experiencing a moment of disorientation as she remembers where she is and why, and then another moment of anxiety as she realizes she is still here alone when Sark should be with her. She tries his phone again, and still there is no response. He might still be in transit, she reasons.

The shower is warm and welcoming, and after she's dressed again she feels slightly more prepared for what lies ahead. She's debating whether to try phoning once more, or whether to check in with someone from the New York Base Ops. They'd been hesitant to disclose anything, even to her, until the operation was complete, but still she can't help but wonder why no one's contacted her yet. All of it is enough to make anxiety turn a knot in her stomach.

There's a knock at the door then, and she stands quickly. Reaching for her pistol with one hand, she moves to answer it, and doesn't know what to think when she looks through the viewer and sees her father standing in the hall waiting for her. She wastes no time in pulling the door open, knows she can't hide the expectation she feels.

"Dad? What's going on? I thought someone was supposed to call first..."

He enters her room and she shuts the door closed behind him. His demeanour is of the same professional exterior she has become accustomed to whenever she meets him, and yet there is a hesitation about him that she has not seen before.

"Dad...Tell me what's happening, I still haven't heard what went on with New York..."

"I know, Sydney, I know, and I apologize for that. We encountered some difficulties at that site, and needed to wait to be sure there was nothing we had missed. I wanted to be the one to explain it all to you in person," he adds.

She feels a knot of worry start to twist at her stomach, and she swallows. "What are you talking about? I thought since everything went well in Berlin..." The rest of her sentence trails off. She doesn't need to explain what else she expected.

"Sydney, there's no simple way for me to tell you this," Jack's voice is decisive, clear. "Sark was shot during the New York operation."

She's incredulous, disbelieving. A thousand questions come to her in a flood. "What? How..." No, no, no…

"The SWAT team was very thorough, very skilled. They didn't waste any time after the system started to destruct, and as soon as they could enter, they did. Sark must have been trying to escape already, and one of Faber's own agents fired on him. After that…"

Jack pauses for a moment, his eyes blinking slowly, "It caught the attention of one of our own Agents, and Faber's security team was eliminated, but by that time it was too late. It's not clear whether they recognized him for who he is or if they simply shot at him because it looked like he was trying to make a getaway."

Sydney feels as though the blood has drained from her, as her hands go numb and she's sure her face is white as a sheet. Her knees start to give out, and she sinks to a sitting position at the edge of the bed. Jack follows, sitting next to her and putting a hand on her arm. The question lingers on her lips, but she doesn't know if she can bring herself to ask it. She doesn't think she can ask without trembling. Somehow, she finds a way.

"Did they find his body?"

The silence is agonizing. Her father answers after a moment's pause, his tone gentler now. "Sydney...According to reports, Sark sustained at least two bullet wounds to his torso, and one in his leg. There was a considerable amount of blood..."

"But no one's found him?" She's grasping now, looking for reassurance and terrified there will be none.

His mouth closes, lips pressing together in a line. He has no other answer to her question than the truth, but he knows it will bring no further comfort to her. "No, no one has found him."

Relief flickers through her mind for a brief moment, as she holds on to a thread of hope that this means he might still be alive. But that is only for a moment, and then she swallows, blinking fiercely against tears she cannot stop.

She knows she should have expected this, already knew what the possibilities were when she began this. And so did he. She remembers his words to her before, and his actions that spoke so many volumes more than that, and how he must have known the possible consequences when he agreed to help them. To help me.

Suddenly she's caught, paralysed under everything that she's feeling all at once. She can't process all of it: the reality that suddenly intrudes into the expectation she has just allowed in to her life; the strength it must have taken for her father to sit by and await the moment when he would need to give her this news; even the very fact that she is now free again is not something she can grasp on to now.

She lifts a hand to her mouth as her other arm wraps around her waist as if trying to hold herself together; Her vision blurs completely before her eyes press shut completely. She senses her father shift closer, and then both his arms close around her, and she buries her head against his shoulder.

* * * * *

Jack stays with her a while longer, asks her if she will consider returning to Los Angeles with him. At that moment she's still so disoriented she doesn't know whether to accept the invitation out of gratitude, or refuse out of some persistent optimism or hope that she still needs to grasp on to.

In the end she declines, delaying any decision and giving Sark more time to contact her. She even tries the other listings that Evan Crane has held, in London and elsewhere, and still finds no response.

The day passes, and then the night, and then another day, and he never arrives in London. Sydney waits for him according to plan, even a little bit longer than she was supposed to, despite the urgency she feels and the grief she feels beginning to tear at her.

* * * * *

A full seventy-two hours have passed since Karen Sorensen stepped out of a Berlin office tower for the last time. Now, a dark-haired woman named Renee Brown walks into the National Westminster Bank in London for the first time.

When she hands over her key and offers her identification, she is brought to the safety deposit box that has been left for her, and discovers that it was last accessed just over one month ago. Before the takedown was even set, she realizes.

Her fingers tremble a little as she opens the box and removes its sparse contents one piece at a time.

The first thing she sees is a hand written note with three simple words.

"For the future."

And although her father has been the only person to witness her emotional response to the fall of a man she once despised, the grief she feels for that man will finally overtake her as she reads the box's contents. For inside she finds cashiers cheques, and a small purse of diamonds; But there at the very bottom, a folder containing the ownership deeds to a house in Thailand, and month-old statements for an account with the Bank of Asia on Phuket Island. And the name on all of these documents is hers.

Sydney Bristow.

* * * * *

It's a full day later by the time she boards a plane to Hong Kong. Just as easily as Karen Sorensen stepped off of a plane in Berlin, and Renee Brown stepped off of one in London, so too will Sydney Bristow leave them both behind when she arrives in Hong Kong.

From there she will transfer to another plane to Bangkok, and then another that will take her south along the Thai coast to the island of Phuket. And then once she has arrived there she will take a taxi into town and walk into the tall office of the Bank of Asia, and show them the identity cards she holds. They will provide her with access to a joint account opened one month ago by Mr. Crane, and nod graciously when she thanks them, and try to ignore their looks of polite concern when her hand shakes as she signs her authorization.

And then she will take all of these cards and documents to another office, this one for an upscale real estate outfit, and once again they will accommodate her requests.

As the day finally comes to an end, she will drive by taxi to a house atop a green hillside above Chalong bay, and try to steady her hand as she inserts her key into the lock. She will walk through the house and explore every room, brush her fingers along every piece of furniture that stands there and every picture that hangs on the walls, and search for some reminder of the man who has given her all of this.

She will stand on the balcony and watch the orange streak of light start to fade on the horizon, and with futile hands will try to brush her tears away.

* * * * *

A week passes, and then another. Her grief and disorientation never quite leave her, but eventually she finds herself seeking pursuits for her time, and exploring interests she'd forgotten about.

Through all the years in SD-6, and then the CIA, and then in Berlin, she always wondered to herself what she would do after it all ended. Somehow in her mind, her professional attachments were never her final destination, but the route she had to take to get there. Now she wonders if the place she finds herself in now is just another bend in the road, or the final stop that has been out of reach for so long.

After a month has gone by she has found a pattern to her days, and has begun to recognize the faces that greet her in the markets she frequents and the restaurants she visits. Even the local Bhuddist temple has become a familiar place and now offers her comfort. The people in the town speak to her in halting English, and each week she responds with a few more words of Thai than she was able to do before. Out of all the languages she learned during her time with the CIA, she never had the chance to learn this one.

In the mornings she rides her bike into town and around the island, as the breeze flows through her hair and she lifts her face to the sunshine. Her afternoons are filled with photography excursions and fishing lessons and Thai language books. In the evenings she sips at glasses of Bourbon because it reminds her of him, and she stands on her balcony and tries to count the stars. She watches the tourists who stay for a week at a time and smiles; she watches couples holding hands on the beach and her smile fades a little.

Her skin has taken on the golden sheen of the sun, and her once-empty closet fills with sleeveless tops of every colour, and sandals in every style she can find. The previous auburn shade of her hair has changed and softened into a copper brown, lit by highlights from so much time outside.

Every few weeks she travels up the coast to the larger postal depot, and sends plainly marked packages to an anonymous post office box in Los Angeles. In exchange, she receives brief anonymous letters from a man whose handwriting she will always know, and every month that goes by is another that she knows she will never be able to share with her father. Each time when she arrives to receive the latest package she experiences intense anticipation and enthusiasm at hearing from Jack. And then as she reads them and returns on her way back, her heart sinks as she asks herself when she will ever see him again.

And even after the first month passes, and the second drifts into the third, and the fourth month into a fifth, every time she returns to the house that is almost a home she still pauses and listens, and then reminds herself that no one will be waiting for her.

* * * * *

Still, time passes, and each week she finds herself more at home in this new place than she did the week before. She's discovered the freedom that has been given to her, away from the professional restrictions she carried for so long, and towards the personal liberty she has always wanted.

One day in July the weather changes again, as she has learned so often happens at this time of year. There hasn't been any rain for several days, but she rises that morning and watches the grey clouds start to scatter along the still-blue sky, and feels the wind start to flow through the windows. As she inhales, her lungs take in the warm, humid air and she recognizes the prelude to the rain that will come that day.

Sydney packs a bottle of water and some extra film in her backpack and slings her camera across her shoulder, and walks down the hill towards the bay. She's become accustomed to the changing weather and how it alters the island's landscape, and her camera has become enough of a companion for her that she takes every opportunity she can to find new pictures and scenes and colours.

An hour or two passes as she makes her way down the beach and through the coves along the southeastern side of the island. She watches as the boats travel back towards the shore, and as the clouds gather the light changes every few minutes. The blue water fades from turquoise to a deep royal shade and then back to somewhere in between as the sun gradually departs and the haze move in.

Three rolls of film are full before she realizes it, and then she starts to walk back along the coast towards the beach she now knows so well.

It's another half hour later when her hill finally comes into view, and by then the wind has become fierce. She admonishes herself for getting caught so easily - it's happened to her before, and resulted in one ruined camera and a bad cold the next day.

When she rounds the final curve and steps on to her own beach, all she can think about is the humid air that moves around her so furiously, and the weight of her camera, and her water bottle that is now empty. As the first drops of rain begin to dot the white sand, she glances up briefly and experiences a moment of frustrated impatience when she notices the man walking down the steps near her house.

She doesn't want to have explain to another tourist that this isn't the time to go swimming, or that she doesn't have directions to whatever scuba resort he's trying to find, or do anything else that's going to keep her from getting inside with her film and into dry clothes. But then she gets closer to the hill, and watches from her short distance as the man continues down her stairs.

And she takes in his appearance; she sees his hair that was once brown has now lightened again, and his skin that is still pale from so many days and nights spent out of sight, and the hesitancy in his stride that comes from the slight limp in one leg.

Her heartbeat quickens, her breathing becomes suddenly shallow, and she stops in her tracks as she watches what she knows in her mind must be a vision - a hallucination, surely - because it's what she's told herself would never be real for her.

But her hands shake as she grasps at the straps on her bag and her camera as if for dear life, and for that moment she's frozen where she stands. Because she's convinced that if she takes one step further she'll shatter this vision, and the pieces will be irretrievable but somehow she'll have to pick them up and keep going.

No, this is real. It has to be.

The man's feet leave the final step and touch down on the sand, and his hand lifts from the railing as he begins to walk towards her. And then she stops debating whether to step forward, because now she's not just moving towards him, but running. She leaves her bag and her camera behind because she's already forgotten why she brought them along, and he's still moving too slowly and she can't wait another second longer.

And in that moment before she reaches him she finally watches that grey streak that has clouded her future start to fade, and it is replaced by something she cannot describe but only knows that it will belong to both of them, and that its brightness overpowers her.

She still knows that almost nothing will be certain. Her life will change, that is all that she can tell for sure.

She knows that today a storm might come... That she might leave here and never return... That he might come to her now and take her away somewhere she could never predict... Or that she might stay here and live out the rest of her days with the man she once struggled against and who now lights her memories like no one else has...

She knows that there might still be another SD-6 or Johannes Faber, and that the troubles of her past will never truly fade... Perhaps Rambaldi's legacy will return to her again one day and she will wrestle with him even more furiously than before… Perhaps there will never be a truly happy ending, or children, or a permanent address, or anything that she thought she wanted...

Still, she knows that none of that matters, because all that she truly longs for is now here with her. And so, when she reaches him she throws her arms around him and claims his lips with hers as if she has found her lifeline again. He kisses her back, his mouth responding to hers just as on that first grey dawn that now seems to her like a memory of a past age.

They fall, then, knees bending to the sand under the strength of their affinity, and she can't be sure if the damp saltiness she tastes is from her tears or the rain, because the clouds have finally opened above them.

She's drowning in the sensation of his hands on her, and her body against his, and tasting him all over again and it's the same, just the same as it was before. He wraps his arms around her and she feels his hands pressing against her, wants to feel them everywhere at once; and inside she is splintering, breaking under the flood of emotion that envelops her.

In a moment they will part, and she will touch her hands to his face and look into his eyes. Her voice will fail her, because she knows if she speaks it will not even begin to explain how she feels.

She will take his hand, and they will walk side by side back up to the hill, and the rain will continue to fall but they will not notice. She will lead him inside and show him the life he has given her, how she has found so much in her life that she had never thought to expect. And he will hold her and offer her his plea for forgiveness, tell her how he'd planned for so much, how he had needed to be sure of his strength and her safety before he returned to her.

And for a split second her grief will be stronger than it ever was, before dissolving completely into something she knows without a doubt is the most happiness she has ever felt. For the first time in years she will truly smile - a genuine and broad smile of fulfillment and relief, to follow countless times of regret and anger and sorrow.

She will wrap her arms around him once more as he envelops her in his, and he will show her without words that she will never need to wait for him again.

* * * * *

~FIN~

* * * * *

"Put off that mask of burning gold
With emerald eyes."
"O no, my dear, you make so bold
To find if hearts be wild and wise,
And yet not cold."

"I would but find what's there to find,
Love or deceit."
" It was the mask engaged your mind,
And after set your heart to beat,
Not what's behind."

"But lest you are my enemy,
I must enquire."
" O no, my dear, let all that be;
What matter, so there is but fire
In you, in me?"

~'The Mask', by W.B. Yeats

* * * * *

Main Menu

Back to Top