Title: Foul-Weather Friend
Author: wakingepiphany (Jamie)
Rating: R, currently, for language and sexy situations
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me; they belong to J.J. Abrams and Bad Robot.
Pairings: Sark/Sydney, implied past Sydney/Vaughn, implied past Sark/Lauren, implied past Sark/Alison.
Timeline: Estimating that the end of season 4 ended in the month of May, consider this to start in July of that same summer.
Summary: After suffering series of debilitating headaches and blackouts, Julian Sark takes a doctor-recommended leave from the second oldest profession in the world, espionage, only to be pulled right back into the thick of things at the arrival of a strange, scarlet envelope at his home. It contains intel concerning his longtime mentor, Irina Derevko, and there is only one other person who can help him find her. Sydney Bristow has left her life as a CIA operative to start a new life in anonymity after her sister, Nadia, is left in a coma and her fiancé, Michael Vaughn, is killed by Prophet 5, a mysterious terrorist group. She is trying to pick up the pieces of her shattered existence when a familiar enemy and sometimes associate crashes back into her life. Reluctantly, they must work together to save something invaluably important to the both of them and in the in the process, maybe even save each other.
Author's Note: Chapter 8, Part 2 was finished a bit sooner than previously anticipated. I wrote the entirety of this on tiny slips of paper while I worked the returns desk at a large, franchised, hardware store. It made the work day go by a bit quicker :-) In this chapter, there are a few familiar faces, lots of pork products, two dead bodies and one funeral. The soundtrack for this chapter is great and it contains the song that was the inspiration for the story's title, Foul-Weather Friend. Enjoy!
Of all the times she had been knocked unconscious, Sydney had never dreamed. Blissful, unfeeling blackness has always followed a kick to the head or an elbow to the temple. It was a welcome oblivion; undeniably more preferable to the painful reality that usually greeted her afterwards.
This particular instance, however, was entirely different. Sydney had blacked out from the pain that Faust had elicited from her; the body's natural reaction to try and protect the mind from harm. But instead of retreating into the safe, calm blackness, a scene began to form in her mind. The clarity and detail of the dream made it seem oddly prophetic, as if she had already been at exactly this time and place and had simply forgotten it had occurred.
She was standing on a white sand beach, its unblemished surface occasionally married by pink shells. She was standing side by side with Sark, his short blond hair catching the gentle ocean breeze. They stood, watching the sea, the feeling of apprehension, anxiety, and fear that had plagued her since Vaughn's death felt lessened somehow. They stood, not as enemies, but as something far more ambiguous but sharing an undeniable connection that Sydney could not quite put into words.
They were parting, perhaps forever, but her mouth could not form the words she was supposed to say. She was shocked, and almost ashamed, of the genuine despair she felt at this, the end of their partnership. When she found she was able to speak, the words that came out were sincere, even tinged with a certain affection that she was sure Sark would be able to see, no matter how hard she tried to hide it. He could read her so well now; it was almost pointless to pretend they weren't something more than business partners.
Sark was talking now, his crooked lips forming words the omniscient Sydney couldn't hear. The Sydney on the beach was shaking her head no, and by the look on Sark's face, he had expected that would be her answer. There was no bad blood between them now, their past crimes and misdeeds forgiven, and they walked away from each other, each carrying the weight of the words left unsaid between them.
Something made Sydney stop in mid-stride, and she called out to Sark, her heart pounding in her chest. She ran to him, feeling the sand shift beneath her feet, the wind in her hair, but she couldn't run fast enough, there was something she needed to say, something Sark needed to hear.
She reached him and they stood facing each other for the first time since they set foot on the beach, and Sydney wondered how, after everything they had been through, how he could still look at her as if she were some perfect, flawless creature. She opened her mouth to tell him, the truth bubbling up in her throat, threatening to choke her if she didn't say it. The first word died on her lips as blood sprayed from her abdomen; a bullet pierced through her womb, and the warm liquid started to spread across her shirt and gently trickle into a pool in the sand.
Sark caught her before she fell and held her, cradling her like a child. He put one hand to the wound, and wiped the blood that had trickled from her mouth away with the pad of his thumb. He was yelling, screaming but there was no one around, no one that could help her.
His face looked strange, Sydney thought. His blue eyes were endless oceans, so big and blue. His face was taught with some emotion Sydney would have called fear if it had been anyone else expressing it. The pool of blood in the sand was growing larger, the setting sun shining off the precious liquid like a ruby-red jewel.
"Wake up, Sydney," a voice demanded. Sark's lips were moving but it was not his familiar British accent that was commanding her attention.
"Wake up, Sydney. Rise and shine."
Sydney felt a very real, very sharp pain in her stomach, making nausea rise up in her throat. She was no longer standing on a pink-shelled beach next to Sark, bleeding from a bullet wound to the abdomen.
She was, however, going to throw up. Sydney vomited spectacularly all over Faust's shoes. She felt vaguely sorry he wasn't wearing sandals as she tried desperately to open her eyes. She felt very off; a drug-induced grogginess with a side of nausea rolled over her in waves as Sydney forced her eyelids open.
"An unfortunate side effect of this particular truth serum," Sydney heard Faust say, as she struggled to keep her eyes from shutting again. Blurrily, she saw him shake his shoes, trying to rid them of her sick.
She had no idea how long she had been unconscious, because there was still darkness beyond the dingy, dirt encrusted windows of a sewer-like room.
"I call this serum The Naked Truth," Faust said smugly. "And while it is stronger than the usual sodium pentothal and cannot be undermined with methamphetamine to counteract the truth-telling, it does wreck a bit of havoc on the digestive system. The pain will only get worse the more you try to lie, not that you could with The Naked Truth."
Sydney opened her mouth to retort, but ended up vomiting again, this time soaking the cuffs of Faust's tailored suit pants, as well as his shoes again. Faust looked upward, as if silently asking God for strength. Sydney's stomach felt much better after expelling its contents, but a growing sense of apprehension was taking hold.
Without an antidote to The Naked Truth, Sydney's lies would begin to unravel, and everything she had worked for in the past few months would come crumbling down in moments. She needed to be proactive. She had to stall Faust until she could find a way to escape.
"Why is this painting so important to you?" Sydney asked pointedly. Behind her back, Sydney tested the chair, feeling the screws, trying to put pressure on the weak points as best she could without detection.
"As it is I that administered the truth serum to you," Faust replied drolly. "I think I will be the one to do the questioning. Why did you steal the painting?"
Lies filled Sydney's head, but the more she thought about them, the sicker she felt. She willed for some story to come from her lips, but the truth slipped out, like so much vomit on her captor's shoes.
"I was told to steal it by the person holding my parents captive," Sydney whispered.
Faust's eyebrows scrunched together in a way that reminded her of someone, but in the moment, she couldn't place who.
"Interesting. Who is this person who has your parents' captive?"
Sydney's stomach lurched.
"I only know him as The Messenger."
"The Messenger," Faust repeated, scratching the stubble on his chin. "So, you have no idea what this painting truly is?"
Sydney knew there was no wriggling her hands from her bounds. She did the only thing she could think of. Bracing the thumb of her left hand against the metal bars of the chair, Sydney used the chair to break the thumb on her left hand. The pain was excruciating, and she breathed heavily in and out of her mouth, waiting for the pain to dissipate. Faust must have interpreted this heavy breathing as Sydney trying to formulate a lie again and therefore fighting back the nausea. He took a step back as to save his shoes from more danger as Sydney answered him, while Sydney was able to remove the rope from her left hand, thanks to that pesky finger being out of the way.
"It has something to do with Milo Rambaldi," Sydney spat at him. She couldn't help to voice her suspicions. She worked to free her right hand.
"So, it spears you know more about this painting than you previously let on. Tell me, Miss Bristow. Do you believe you are Rambaldi's Chosen One?"
She hadn't anticipated this question. The words spilled out, if on their own volition.
"Yes."
Her answer surprised her. Not wanting believe what her mouth had uttered, Sydney looked inside herself. She didn't believe that she would render the greatest power unto utter desolation. But, if there really was a man named Milo Rambaldi, and whether or not the predictions he made were true, if there was person that he intended would bring forth his words, he intended it to be her. She was the woman on Page 47, whether she wanted to be or not.
"That surprised me," Faust said honestly, pacing back and forth in front of Sydney's chair. "I hadn't expected that to be your answer."
"Me neither," Sydney mouth said, without her consent. She had managed to free both of her hands, taking some skin around her wrists to do it. She had just hoped Faust would not ask what she was doing behind her back before she had a chance to strike.
"I am not a follower of Rambaldi," Faust said suddenly. "I'm not some cult-loving zealot fool. No, this painting, and Rambaldi in general, is a means to an end. And you, Miss Bristow, are both the beginning and end to this whole great adventure."
Sydney launched herself at him, connecting her bloody forearm to his throat. Taking advantage of the surprise moment, she turned Faust around and held him against the table.
"I'm taking the painting," Sydney panted in Faust's ear. She twisted his arm, hearing his shoulder pop as she dislocated it. He winced, but otherwise did not voice his pain.
"But before I go…" Sydney trailed off. She struck lightning quick, grabbing a syringe filled with The Naked Truth and plunging it into Faust's neck. She quickly turned him around, forcing him into the chair she had just vacated. Picking up the rope that had restrained her, she tied him up.
"I'm going to ask you a bunch of questions," Sydney said seriously. "And you are going to answer them immediately. What were you going to do with this painting?"
Faust struggled futilely against his bonds. Sydney could tell the serum was beginning to work. Faust's face had turned a sickly pale color; he groaned in pain and began to double over. Moments later, when he turned his head away from her and retched, did he finally speak.
"There is a formula encoded within the painting," Faust panted, clearly in pain. "It is said to have brought people who were on the verge of death back to life. My son is gravely injured; he will not live past the next few months without a miracle."
Having no other choice but to believe him, Sydney pressed on, her mind working feverishly to work out this information.
"Is this the formula that was used to bring Alison Dorec back after sustaining three gunshot wounds to the chest?"
It appeared as if he were struggling with himself to answer.
"I don't know," he finally replied. "It could be."
Sydney's mind was working a mile a minute. If this formula could bring someone who sustained serious injured back from the brink of death, could it heal someone suffering from a disease that Rambaldi himself created?
"Would this formula work no someone who is suffering from the disease that killed all the people in Sovogda?"
Faust looked around, wild-eyed, appearing as if he might vomit again. Sydney prayed he wouldn't, the smell was beginning to get to her. She cut to the point.
"Yes or no? Answer me!"
"I don't know!' Faust yelled. "It could. A Rambaldi antidote for a Rambaldi disease! If you let me keep the painting, I will duplicate the serum for you! But I need the formula or my son will die!"
Sydney crossed the room, to where she knew Faust had placed the painting. She tucked the cylindrical tube under her arm and adjusted her ridiculous policewoman outfit.
"The thing is, Faust," Sydney called to him as she walked the door. "This painting could save the three people I care about most in this world, and I will not let you, or anyone, take them away from me again."
She had already pushed the heavy metal door open when Faust's voice rang out.
"You're just as beautiful as he said you were."
Not wanting to take the bait, but knowing that he couldn't lie, Sydney turned.
"Who said this?"
Faust smiled. "My son," he answered proudly.
Sydney frowned. "What's your son's name?"
"My son's name is –"
The door Sydney had been about to exit through burst open, slamming into her injured arm and hand. The painting fell with a thud onto the damp floor as two men came toward her. Faust was still talking but Sydney could not hear him over the din. She kicked the first assailant, slicing a deep gash across his face with the sharp stiletto heal of her boot. She quickly moved to the second attacker, silencing him with a chop to the neck and a kick to the stomach.
The first assailant was recovering so Sydney quickly dropped to the floor in a roundhouse kick, picking up the fallen painting in the process. A shift hit to the temple with the hard edge of the painting's tube rendered the first assailant unconscious. Seeing how well it had worked with the first attacker, Sydney used the same method on the fallen second assailant.
Not knowing when a second wave of attackers might show up, Sydney walked through the door, leaving Faust behind without a second look. Her mind did wander briefly from the pain in her hands to Faust's son. Someone that was dying, someone who thought she was beautiful.
She quickly pushed the unimportant thought away. Sydney's heart soared at the possibilities that lay wide open to her. Unfortunately, her mind began to rationalize. Her decision would not be a simple one. Either she could appease The Messenger and hand over the painting, bringing her one step closer to rescuing her parents. Or she could find the encoded formula that could bring Nadia back from her long, silent sleep. Sydney needed to do both and she needed to do neither at the same time.
She just hoped the Messenger hadn't already left instructions for the painting's dead drop. If she could somehow duplicate the painting, or decode the formula equation, she could resuscitate Nadia. But the logistics of it all, the timing was too crucial to be done sloppily.
As Sydney exited the warehouse she had been held captive, still wearing her naughty policewoman's uniform, she wondered what Sark would say. She shook her head, reminding herself that Sark was the one that walked away, and any help he could have given her was wasted now anyway. She'd find a way to duplicate the painting without Sark. She had run rogue, solo missions for years without his help and resources. She needed to stop thinking of him, of the tiny blip in time where they were of some help to one another. He was nothing, he was a wasted effort.
Still, before she pushed the thought of him forcefully from her mind, she wondered what Sark would have done if she had asked him to duplicate the painting, if it meant putting Irina in harms way just to save her sister. Sydney thought she knew the answer, but it didn't matter now.
Sydney hailed a cab, reveling in the idea that she didn't have to take his feelings into consideration anymore. Not that she did that much anyway when they had been together. Knowing full well she probably looked like a hooker on the way home from a though night on the job, Sydney finally caught the attention of a yellow taxi and slumped into the back seat, clutching the painting protectively in her lap.
"The Bellagio", Sydney told the cabbie, indicating where she was staying for the night. The cabbie started her fare, and drove toward the blinding lights of the Vegas strip.
"Long night?" the driver asked knowingly. Not even bothering to issue him a dirty look or refute his insinuation, Sydney stared out the window.
"You have no idea."
With shaking legs and a pounding head, Sark stood up and stepped over the slain corpse of Dr. Annabelle Carlile. Her body would need to be disposed of, of course. However, there was something far more pressing on Sark's mind than a dead body in his kitchen.
He half walked, half stumbled into his study. Slumping into his leather desk chair, Sark pulled up the security feed from the inside of the house from the past 24 hours. After the clicks of a few keys, he was watching Dr. Carlile and himself talking silently on the screen. After a few minutes time, he watched his video self falter. Dr. Carlile had rushed over in an instant, but he had already taken out the lamp, shattering glass into a shower of crystal filaments. The doctor was trying to stop his flailing arms and legs to minimize his being cut on the glass, but he could see the strain of trying to do so had only gotten her cut herself. He saw her lift up her arm, a trickle of dark blood seeped down her porcelain skin. Still, she reached into her bag and tried to shine a flashlight in his eyes, but the seizures were too intense for an accurate assessment.
He watched as he finally laid still. The doctor stood up, grabbed a pillow from the couch, and stuck it under Sark's head.
Then, unexpectedly, she walked away. Trying to find her on the surveillance footage, Sark followed her progress through the house and watched her leave, back through the wrought iron gates and into her vehicle.
If she had only gotten into her car and sped away, Sark would not have a dead body on his hands and a growing fear in his mind. But no, Dr. Carlile had gotten something from her car, and seeing what it was, Sark cursed her for her altruism. She was getting her medical supplies, trying to take care of him. She was also holding something to her mouth and was speaking into it: a tape recorder.
She was walking back to the house when Sark spotted movement on the surveillance footage from inside the house. It was him. He watched as the Julian Sark on the video picked himself up off the floor, not even looking down at his cut and bloody arms.
His movements were oddly fluid and at the same time robotic; as if he were machine instead of human. With no hesitation, the Sark in the video went to a nearby desk drawer and pulled out the sharp letter opener. He moved swiftly from room to room, stopping to finally hide in the kitchen, his back against the wall, waiting.
Yet, despite the face he knew what was about to happen onscreen, Sark half-wished that a mysterious stranger would enter the frame and kill Dr. Carlile. At least then, at the very worst, he would need a better security system. The alternative to that scenario, the actual truth, was far more frightening than Sark dared to admit.
For once in his life, Julian Sark did not know what to do. If he didn't have control over himself, over his own actions, what kind of life could he lead? He would almost rather be dead than a pawn in someone's sick agenda, an agenda he did not agree to be a part of.
And yet, Sark waited, needing to see what he already knew: that he was no longer his own master.
Dr. Carlile was walking briskly, still talking animatedly into her tape recorder. As she came up upon the spot where Sark's body should have been, there was nothing but broken glass and a few small smears of blood on the hard wood floor. She looked around, confused, still talking into the tape recorder. She walked slowly, cautiously, from room to room, as if she was expecting someone to jump out from a dark corner and yell "boo".
Despite her caution, she hadn't heard the man she was trying to help grab her from behind and slit her pale, graceful throat.
Her hands automatically went to the wound, already pumping arterial spray all over the walls and floor. There was no stopping the slow, painful mechanism of death, and he could see the good doctor knew it too. Dr. Carlile grabbed at the Julian Sark in the video, clutching his shirt front. Looking down, the real Sark saw she had left her bloody handprints on him. Even through the video feed, he could feel her green eyes burning through him. Why, they begged him. Why?
The Sark in the video stood, impassive and unfeeling, as the doctor drew her final breath. It wasn't until the doctor laid quite still and the blood from her neck slowed to a trickle, did the video Sark. He put a finger to Dr. Carlile's ruined neck, just to make sure his work was done and made a move to drag the body suddenly stopped.
His hands flew up to his head and he staggered. The violent episode ended just as it has started; with a mind splitting headache that would leave Sark wondering what the hell happened to his sanity.
Sark turned the security feed off. Now that his suspicions had been confirmed, he stood and walked to the kitchen, where the arduous task of getting rid of the body of Annabelle Carlile waited for him. However, before he could start to dispose of the once vivacious woman, Sark turned her on her side, finding the tape recorder she had been carrying underneath her body.
Sitting in a relatively bloodless patch of the kitchen floor, Sark pressed play to hear the last words Dr. Carlile would ever utter.
"Patient name: Julian Sark," he heard Dr. Carlile say breathlessly into the recorder. "Presenting with seizures and complaining of extreme head pain. Appears to be presenting symptoms very similar to the brain implant patients that were sent to me after stint in eastern European hospital. There is a very real possibility that Mr. Sark has been implanted without his knowledge, possibly with some new, unobtrusive method, as there was no scarring typical to the older implant patients. Mr. Sark…"
Dr. Carlile paused, as if confused. "…is no longer where I left him. He is probably extremely disoriented, possibly suffering from a temporary fugue state. Though Mr. Sark would definitely be opposed, I'm going to have to take him to the hospital for further tests and monitoring. Now, if I could just find him –"
And she had. He heard the wet, rasping sound of blood and air escaping through the gash in her neck. She was trying to speak, trying to communicate, despite the undisputed medical fact that the necessary muscles to do so had just been slashed. There were a few last, gaping breaths but, as the tape recorder ran, it eventually went silent.
Sark shut off the tape recorder and placed it in his pocket. His mind couldn't stop turning over the word "implant". He was a flesh and blood machine for someone unknown puppet master and he considered, for a moment, if suicide might be an option he needed to take. Entertaining this idea of being controlled, as opposed to some dysfunctional multiple personality or mental illness he was not aware of, was almost impossible to swallow. However, Sark has seen too much in his short life to disregard it as fantasy.
If a woman he had loved had been given another woman's face and body, if a Rambaldi device had turned millions of people into mindless zombies, if he had kissed Sydney Bristow and felt her desire mirror his, then anything was possible.
He couldn't work it all out now, what all this new information meant for him. What it meant for Irina. What it meant for Sydney. Right now there was a decomposing body in his bloodstained kitchen.
First things first.
Sydney returned to her house in the early morning feeling, not pleased or excited the mission has gone well and that she had only escaped with a few less fingernails and a broken thumb. No, she felt anxious, with a sense of foreboding washing over her, as if the other shoe was about to drop. She could feel that something had changed since she had last been home. Not physically different; her security system and video surveillance were clean, and nothing else had gone missing or had been moved.
Still, Sydney couldn't help but feel that a storm was coming. Something dangerous and formidable was waiting for her, and all she could do was wait for it to crash into her.
She hadn't come home to a scarlet envelope, so Sydney had started looking up both legal and illegal means of recreating works of art. The process of replicating a painting could take weeks, or, more realistically, months, for a perfect forgery. Months of free time was not something Sydney could spare.
She had only been home for two days when there was a knock at the door. Sydney hesitated, the feeling of dread rolling over her once more. She knew that if someone was here to kill her, they wouldn't knock and yet, it felt just like that. She felt an end coming. Still, she reached in her desk drawer and pulled out her glock, keeping it at the ready.
As she approached the door, she could see the top of a head, an arm, and a shoulder, peeking out from behind the glass surrounding the front door. It was an arms and head she recognized, someone very dear and yet, someone she did not want or need gracing her doorstep at this time.
But how could she deny him? Sydney's eyes welled up but she quickly wiped the tears away. How could she ignore this man? She couldn't. Her heart swelled as she tucked the gun into the waistband of her jeans and opened the door.
"Hello Sydney," Marcus Dixon said softly.
"Dixon," Sydney replied, already pulling him into an embrace. She missed him; she hadn't realized how much until this very moment. Sydney wiped the tears that had sprung to her eyes away before she faced him. Sweet, dependable Dixon. She couldn't stop looking at his face, one she knew almost as well as her own. It was looking at this face, his familiar wonderful face, that Sydney knew. She knew the anxious feeling that had followed her the past few days manifested itself in this sweet face. Something was wrong. Someone was very wrong.
"It was almost impossible to find you," Dixon said desolately.
"It was impossible to find me because I made it that way," Sydney said simply, but her sadness was evident.
"I know," Dixon sighed, as if bracing himself. "I think we should sit down for what I have to say." Eyes wide, Sydney wordlessly guided Dixon inside and fell onto a couch. Dixon took Sydney's hand in his. His hands were so familiar to Sydney. Her life had depended on the hands she was holding, so strong and warm, but she found no comfort in them now.
"I don't know how else to say this other than to just say it."
Sydney nodded, nothing bothering to wipe the tears. She already knew what he was going to say.
"Two nights ago, Nadia's heart stopped beating. The doctors tried everything they could to get it started again but in the end, there was nothing more they could do for her. I'm sorry Sydney. Nadia is gone."
Sydney had thought about this day, this possibility, just as often as she had thought about Nadia's recovery and had surmised that either way, she'd be wracked with emotion. And yet, knowing Nadia was dead, that Sloane's obsession had killed her, left Sydney feeling utterly numb.
Dixon was still talking, trying to explain. She heard words like, "no pain", "Sloane", "grief", "Weiss", and "funeral". But all Sydney could think about was that painting, that goddamned painting she risked her life for, the painting that could have saved her sister. Sydney had been too busy fretting the time away with Sark in a fruitless quest to save her parents. Nadia had been all alone, in a dreamless sleep, an orphan all over again as her sister left her behind and now, it was almost fitting, that Nadia had left Sydney behind.
And then, it could have been seconds or hours later, Sydney broke. The numbness gave way to great, heaving sobs. Her chest hurt, and there wasn't enough oxygen in the air.
Dixon held her, rocking her back and forth, rubbing her back. It wouldn't stop the pain; Dixon knew this. He had held Steven and Robin like this after Diane had been killed.
"It just hurts so bad, Daddy," Robin had sobbed. "When will it stop hurting?" He hadn't had an answer for them, and he didn't have an answer for Sydney. He still hurt. Every second of everyday was painful. Not having Diane around was a constant throbbing ache that Dixon carried with him always.
For Sydney, for someone who had already felt this pain more times than anyone should, Dixon thought that if he could take the pain away, he would. She deserved so much more than the hardships she had been dealt. She had lost Danny. She had lost her friend…what was her name? Francie, that was it. That Tippin kid was in witness protection. Vaughn? Or, the man Dixon thought of as Vaughn, but had really been Andre Michaeux, betrayed Sydney and then up and died. She was better off without that bastard, but Dixon wasn't sure if she thought that. Her mother was on the run, no doubt, still alive probably but destined to disappoint Sydney again. And Jack? Dixon had his suspicions there. But this was not the time or place to voice that.
This was all he could do for her, Dixon knew this. And he did it willingly, gladly even. Because she was his partner. She was his friend.
He held her, speaking soft words of comfort, until the tears stopped. She pulled herself together after a short while, and released herself from his grasp to pack some clothes. She was still in shock, Dixon knew, but this was a Sydney he knew all too well. A woman on a mission.
Dixon lead the way to his car and they were on the way to airport. The flight to Buenos Aires would take about six hours. They'd leave right from the airport for the funeral.
Bleach had seeped into the wounds of Sark's hands and arms, making them burn unmercifully. He didn't succumb to the pain. No, he welcomed it. The red, inflamed gashes reminded him that he was alive and aware. He had, briefly, considered burning the house down to destroy the evidence, but decided against it. Instead, he placed Dr. Carlile's body, wrapped in a shower curtain, in his large, walk-in freezer while he cleaned. Working through the night, he scrubbed every drop of blood with bleach, so even if the police did investigate, the luminal test would prove faulty.
There was a certain satisfaction in the manual, repetitive labor. Scrub, rinse, squeeze, scrub, rinse, squeeze. Sark reveled in the simplicity of it. Unfortunately, it allowed for much time for thought. Endless scenarios and possibilities ran rampant; all of them darker and more frightening than the last.
Dreams that had seemed a little too vivid, a shade too lucid for mere hallucinations, came crashing back to the forefront of his mind. He wondered now, how many of these illusions were actual facts and events? One particular scenario kept playing on repeat in his mind. Did he actually kill Michael Vaughn? The question haunted him as he scrubbed his sins away.
Five hours later, still questioning his sanity, Sark was certain he had erased all evidence of his crime. Well, all but one, crucial, 115 pounds of evidence currently in his freezer.
His tired, aching body protesting with every step, Sark went down to the cellar and opened the freezer. Dr. Carlile, lay on the ground next to a large box of frozen vegetables, stared sightless and accusatory at him. Wondering if remorse was an unfortunate side effect of this so-called implant, Sark carried her as best he could through his house and out to the car. One quick errand and then the good Dr. Carlile would be out of his life for good.
"10 hams, sir?" The grocer asked Sark good naturedly in Greek. "Having a party?"
"More of a date, actually," Sark replied casually, paying the man 230 euro.
"She's a fan of the pork products, then?" the young man joked.
"If you met her," Sark answered evenly, putting the hams into a cart. "…you'd understand."
Wheeling the cart to his car, the young grocer stared after him, confused but smiling.
Sark drove for miles with a dead body in his trunk and the interior of his car reeking of ham. If he got pulled over, he would have a very unfortunate situation on his hands. However, after driving two hours to the marshes, Sark had only seen sheep and cows in the way of animate objects.
It would be morning soon and he knew he needed to hurry if he was going to get this done before daybreak. Pulling the car to the stop beside a large swamp, Sark steeled himself for a moment. There wasn't any reason he should feel guilty about any of this. She had walked into his home, knowing what he was, even more so than he did at the time. She had put her own life in danger coming to him. Hell, her life had been in danger anyway. He might have killed her on his own volition, if given the chance. But he hadn't been given the chance, or the choice. He wasn't feeling guilty, he decided. He was feeling boxed in, enslaved, and defenseless. He had a body on his hands, yes, but at least he wasn't dead himself.
There was no time to waste. Sark exited the car and popped the trunk. Putting the doctor in the freezer relatively short after her death had slowed the decomposition process, to the point that you could still see what a beauty she was. Unfortunately, she wouldn't look like that for long.
Dragging the body close to the shore, Sark went back to the car, grabbed a few hams, and a ball of heavy duty twine. Crocodiles will eat a human body, even a half-frozen one. However, even a crocodile with the most discerning palate will devour ham. Not wanting to take a chance on having the body recognized, Sark was relying on the crocodiles voracious appetite to take care of things.
He did not want this, a crime he had no memory of committing, to be his ultimate undoing.
After a half hour of nauseating the smell and complicated knots, Sark had tied the 10 hams to the body. Sark stood up and almost reluctantly, pushed the now weighed down body of Dr. Annabelle Carlile into the water. She had been a flawed human being, with her appetite for younger men and a penchant for drinking too much. She had committed crimes, yes, but ultimately she had not deserved the ending she received.
"Goodbye, Dr. Carlile," Sark said softly, as the crocodiles began to circle the corpse. As the sun began to rise, Sark turned his back on woman who had tried to save him and drove away, trying to find a place to set fire to a slightly used car. He could use the walk.
"When I found out I had a sister," Sydney started, shakily. "I didn't know what to expect. Would she have dark hair, like me? Would she have our mother's mouth, or her father's eyes?"
Sydney did not look at Sloane as she delivered Nadia's eulogy. He was the reason she was dead. He didn't deserve to be here, he put the nail in Nadia's coffin. He should be the one being buried in the cold ground. But she knew Nadia would have wanted peace between them. Sydney would abide by her sisters wishes. At least, for today.
"What I found was an incredible woman. Nadia was everything I could have hoped for in a sister, and in a friend. She was incredibly kind-hearted and intensely loyal. For someone who had gone her entire life without her real mother, Nadia embodied all the qualities that would have made her an amazing mother."
Sydney stopped, unable to stop the sob that escaped her lips. She glanced down at Weiss in the first pew. Silent tears streamed down his face as he stared at Nadia's casket. Marshall, with a grief-stricken Weiss on his one side and a saddened Carrie on his other, slung a well-intended arm over Weiss's shoulder. He offered Sydney a sad half smile and she snapped out of her reverie and continued.
"In our line of work, the stress and heartache of the job can get to you. Despite knowing how cruel life can be, despite how many person hardships she had suffered, Nadia persevered. She was a ray of light in an otherwise darkened place and I treasure every minute I had with her. Anyone who knew Nadia can attest to the positive influence she had on others. She had a wicked sense of humor but never used it to hurt others. He laugh was infectious and her smile was nothing less than beautiful.
"I won't stand here in front of you, Nadia's friends and loved ones, and say that she was perfect. Nadia had her flaws. However, instead of hiding those flaws, Nadia embraced them, kept them close to her heart, and never let herself forget them. She didn't run from her past, she accepted her mistakes and that made her an incredibly strong person.
"Even after she got sick, you knew she was fighting every step of the way. There were times at the hospital where I thought I'd see the flutter of an eyelid, or a movement in her hand, and I knew Nadia was still there, just beneath the surface, waiting to wake up. Unfortunately, even the strongest of us have a breaking point. If I am certain of anything, Nadia wouldn't have wanted us sitting around, crying at her funeral. She would have wanted us to rejoice and live life at its fullest, and to remember how just knowing her had made our lives that much better. I love you, Nadia."
Sydney stepped down from the podium. She stopped at the coffin and put her hand on Nadia's. She felt cold, waxy. She didn't even look like her sister anymore. There was no trace of Nadia left, not in this shell of a body, and not in spirit. Sydney looked up, hoping that somewhere, Nadia could hear her.
"I'm sorry," Sydney whispered, letting her hand trace across the cool wood of the casket. "I'm so, so sorry."
She didn't wipe the tears away as she took her place between Dixon and Weiss. Sloane stared at her with misty eyes from the pew adjacent to hers. He opened his mouth to say something, but Sydney lifted her hand in a subtle, unmistakable gesture for his silence. He demurred, but nodded proudly at her.
She could reach across the aisle and kill him right now. Every molecule in Sydney's body screamed for Sloane's death. Her mind and body ached to take his life. With Nadia's death, everything had changed. There was nothing redeeming about Sloane now. Now was the time for action. Now was the time for vengeance.
A slight movement caught Sydney's eye as the priest began reading a passage. At first, she thought it was her eyes playing tricks on her; perhaps it was a tear reflecting light off the stained glass windows. But then, it happened again, a small, but very deliberate movement at the back of the church.
Turning around, Sydney saw it was Cesar Martinez. Nadia's Cesar, a criminal, and a terrorist. Sydney almost forgot about those things as she looked at the anguished heartbreak written plainly across his face. He beckoned to her, and then stepped outside the church.
Sydney looked around; certain someone else had seen him. But no one looked angry or alarmed; only sad, solemn faces surrounded her. Excusing herself, Sydney stood and walked out of the church and into the hot, Argentinean sun, where Cesar Martinez waited for her.
His face was ashen and he had bags under his eyes, as if he hadn't slept in days. For someone so ruthless, it appeared as if he was struggling to keep the tears from spilling down his cheeks.
"What are you doing here, Cesar," Sydney asked coldly. She folded her arms protectively over her chest. "There are at least 40 Argentinean intelligence agents in there and half as many C.I.A. that wouldn't hesitate to shoot you on the spot."
"I had to see her," Cesar said in a choked voice. "I couldn't go to the hospital when she was still…here, and now, I can't even go in, I can't even hold her hand one last time…" Saying her name seemed to break him, and the tears he had been holding at bay spilled down his face. He quickly wiped them away, but the flow did not subside.
"I can't explain to you what I had with Nadia, I wouldn't expect you to understand, or sympathize what I'm going through right now. Despite going our separate ways, despite the darker parts of our shared past, there wasn't anything I wouldn't do for her. I would go to the ends of the earth just to see her smile."
There was only truth in his words, and hearing them only made Sydney's heart lurch painfully.
"That doesn't explain why you're here," Sydney continued stubbornly. "It's not as if you can go in there an pay your respects, you'd he in handcuffs before you even reached the coffin."
"She knows I'm here," Cesar replied wistfully. His expression suddenly darkened.
"What I don't know is why Nadia's murdered is still alive. Not only is he still alive, he sits there, as if he really cares she is dead. Arvin Sloane took away the only person I ever loved…the only person who ever loved me. I'm here today, Sydney Bristow, as a courtesy to you. I am going to kill Arvin Sloane. I just thought you should know."
Sydney let silence settle between them as the idea soaked into her consciousness. Sloane deserved to die many times over for what he did to Nadia, what he did to all those people in Sevogda, what he did to the families of the countless people the had murdered or had murdered, what he had done to her.
The solution to years of hate and repulsion stood right in front of Sydney and yet, should couldn't stand idly by and simply wait for this stranger to kill the man who had ruined her life.
"I want to be there," Sydney said softly. "I want to watch him die."
Cesar stared at her for a moment and then, amazingly, nodded.
"I thought maybe you would," he answered after a moment. "It can't be done right away, he has too much security. I'll need to stake him out for a week, maybe more. There is no room for mistakes for this bastard."
Sydney nodded. "Understood. You will alert me when its time?" It wasn't a question.
"Of course,' Cesar said. "If anyone deserves to be there when I murder Arvin Sloane, it should be you."
Sydney glanced down at her watch. She'd already been gone long enough for someone to start wondering where she had gone.
"You should go," Sydney said nervously. "If I'm not back soon, someone will go looking for me. I don't need to tell you that I can't be seen talking to a known terrorist."
Inwardly, Sydney cringed. If people only knew the other criminal she had been fraternizing with recently. Sydney tried to force the thought of Sark out of her mind but she couldn't shake his image from her head. Suddenly she was inundated with memories of him; his hands, his mouth, and his eyes. Not knowing where this flood of feeling came from, Sydney felt the sting of tears welling up in her eyes again. She had lost Nadia, lost her parents, and somehow, there was this great hole in her that Sark had filled. Sydney suddenly ached at the loss of him. She needed to leave.
"I'll be seeing you," Cesar said purposely. He lifted a hand in farewell.
Their eyes met. A look of understanding and sorrow passed between them and Sydney knew she could trust him. Turning her back on him, she walked quickly back to the church. An idea was forming in her mind, something that could make everything right, or make everything go to shit. As soon as she thought it she felt a calm envelop her. It was a bad decision, more reckless than murdering Arvin Sloane, but it was right, and Sydney could feel it.
Feeling more composed, Sydney walked down the aisle and slid into her pew. No one questioned her whereabouts. Sydney squeezed Weiss's hand reassuringly, wanting to tell him what had transpired outside. But she didn't. He'd know after Arvin Sloane was dead. He wouldn't know for a fact she had had a hand in it, but he might suspect. Dixon, she felt, would know. This was something she needed to do and the world, and especially her friends, would live happier lives with Sloane dead.
The other decision she had made, the one that had come to her walking back from her rendezvous with Cesar, no one would ever know. There was another murder she would have to commit before she could rest, before she could feel whole again. Sydney knew what she'd have to sacrifice to see it through; the potential side effects could be more devastating than if she hadn't gone through with this decision at all. And now, only now, did she have the strength to do it.
Sydney sat through the rest of the funeral, not hearing or caring what the priest said. She was stone, she was ice; nothing could touch her now. She watched with dry eyes as Weiss, Dixon, Marshall, and three Argentinean agents carry her sister's coffin out of the church and into the hearse for Nadia's last journey.
Sydney held Weiss's hand as they lowered Nadia into the ground. She offered him kind words that she didn't actually believe when he sobbed, "I wasn't there, I should have been there, I wasn't there," over and over again.
Only when it was over, when dirt was being thrown over Nadia's coffin, did Sydney leave her friends behind. She walked away from her old life, and toward something she could never walk away from. She knew there was no coming back from murder, so she walked steadily, purposely, toward her absolute undoing, her ultimate salvation.
Sark had made it back to his Grecian villa by early afternoon, after setting his car on fire and then catching a ride with a local in a pickup truck. Sark road two hours in the bed of the truck with the blistering hot sun beating down on him in addition to a friendly, but decidedly smelly canine trying to get Sark to pet him. Sark did not oblige.
He was exhausted by the time he had arrived. There was nothing he'd rather do than pass out. But he didn't. Taking all the strength he had left, which was minimal, he stripped off his clothes and got into the shower. He turned the hot water on as high as his skin could stand without blistering. He longed to wash away the past two day, the past few weeks.
Well, perhaps, not the entirety of the past few weeks. In the chaos of Dr. Carlile's murder, Sark had forgotten about Sydney. Why now, after everything, did her lack of presence hit him so profoundly? He remembered how she had cared for him after his last episode. Had he ever had anyone care for him so attentively? No, Sark was absolutely sure of that.
For someone who had always been a lone wolf, someone who never depended on anyone, Sark felt the strange and unpleasant sensation of loneliness. She was bossy, surly, and used to getting her own way; characteristics that should, in all regards, turn him off. Was it those very things that he missed the most? Or was it her sweet-smelling hair, her flat abdomen, and amazing lips that caused this temporary lapse in his character? It was everything; every stupid, inane thing about Sydney Bristow made him regret leaving her.
Angrily, he punched the tiled wall of the shower, causing the ceramic to spiderweb and crack. Just as quickly as the absurdity of loneliness crossed his mind and turned to anger he composed himself, shoving the weak emotion from his mind. He attributed his uncharacteristic flaw to sheer exhaustion.
Taking time only to dry off, Sark trudged naked to his bedroom, only to find the last thing he wanted to see waiting for him on his bed. The red envelope lay in bright contrast to the white sheets of his bed. He couldn't deal with that right now, he wouldn't. He swept The Messenger's latest correspondence onto the floor and lay on the bed. He fell asleep before his head even hit the pillow.
Sark woke up suddenly, his heart racing. It was dark outside and his bedside clock read 1:30 a.m. He heard the drumming of rain beating on his roof and windows. Then, there, beyond the rain, was a loud, insistent buzzing.
Sark reached into a drawer for a pair of loose fitting, black, drawstring pants and slipped them on. He reached into his bedside end table and pulled out his Walther PPK and tread softly to his study, where the noise was echoing loudly.
A warning issued from his security system. Sark double and triple checked the results. There was no denying it: someone was outside his house. They had breached the gate cleanly. They had only been caught by the infrared camera near the front door. Only someone with a sophisticated understanding of security could have possibly broken the outside perimeter. Someone very dangerous was outside his house and as much as Sark did not want to kill two people in the span of two days, it didn't look as if this intruder was giving him much choice.
Keeping close to the walls, Sark walked slowly to the front door as the rain drummed a steady beat off the roof. He opened the door quickly, pointing his weapon into the night. It was incredibly dark; Sark could hardly see his hands holding the firearm, let alone an assailant. And then, as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, did a body materialize.
There, beyond the patio, on the front steps, sat a solitary hooded figure, obscured by the night.
"Put your hands in the air and turn around, of I will shoot."
The figure did not move. It sat, the rain pelting down on its head, soaking into its dark clothes.
"I will not hesitate to kill you. Either you put your hands in the air and turn around or I pull the trigger. Make no mistake, I am quite serious."
Slowly, the shadowy figure put its hands in the air and stood.
"Turn around," Sark commanded, and the figure flinched. "Turn around!"
Stepping forward, Sark put the barrel of the gun against the back of the intruder's hood head. Slowly, as if in pain, the intruder turned.
"Hi," Sydney said softly. The rain masked the tears that cascaded down her cheeks. She pulled the hood from her face, her dark hair looking as black as the night surrounding it.
"Hi," Sark whispered, lowering his gun. And for a few moments, neither spoke. Had it only been a month since he'd last seen her face? The reasons he had left seemed feeble now as she stood in front of him, her face so weathered and so beautiful.
There was nothing either of them could say; their eyes met and words became unnecessary. Underneath the pounding rain they stood, until Sark turned and opened the door. He held it open for her, half expecting her to turn and run.
But she didn't. After a moment's hesitation, she swept by him into the house. She passed by him and he could smell the scent of her hair that had haunted him since he'd left. Wordlessly, he followed her into the house and shut the door behind them. He led her to the living room and gestured to the couch. She didn't look at him; she needed to look anywhere but at him. Sydney hesitated, as if sitting would somehow make this whole thing real. She looked around, afraid he would see the look on her face, the shame and grief, because it was too much too keep locked up any longer.
Sark laid his hands lightly onto Sydney's shoulders and gently pushed down, making her sit down on the couch. She sat, the tears falling silently down her cheeks, staring across the room. As if not on his own accord, Sark sat down next to her. They sat, not speaking, their shoulders barely an inch apart. He didn't put his arm around her. She didn't lean her heard against his shoulder. They didn't exchange words of comfort.
Simply sitting, side be side…it was enough.
Foul-Weather Friend, Chapter 8, Part 2
1. Iron and Wine, "He Lays In The Reins". Listen to when: Sydney dreams.
Lyrics:
One more drink tonight as your gray stallion rests One more kiss tonight from some tall stable girl
Where he lays in the reins
For all of the speed and the strength he gave
She's like grace from the earth
When you're all tuckered out and tame
2. Stabilo, "Flawed Design". Listen to when: Sydney is being tortured.
Lyrics: When I was a young boy
I was honest and I had more self-control
If I was tempted I would run
Then, when I got older
I began to lie to get exactly what I wanted
When I wanted it
And I wanted it
Now, I'm having trouble differentiating
Between what I want
And what I need
To make me happy
So instead of thinking I just act
Before I have a chance to contemplate the
Consequence of action
3. Tom McRae, "Got Suitcase, Got Regrets". Listen to when: Sark watches the security feed and listens to Dr. Carlile's last words.
Lyrics:
So wake up pretty girl
See the hope in small things
Disappointment can wear you thin
But all I know is
I'm not ready yet
For the light to dim
Got a suitcase, got regrets
But I'm hopeful yet
And I'll raise this glass of wine
And I'll say your name
4. Rosie Thomas, "Farewell". Listen to when: Dixon visits Sydney and lets her know of some sad news.
Lyrics:
I never asked you for
A sailboat in the yard
Or that fancy dress to wear
Or a ceiling made of stars
And all I got was just this
Broken heart from you
5. Elbow, "Leaders of the Free World". Listen to you: Sark cleans up, goes shopping, and says goodbye to the good doctor.
Lyrics: I'm sick of working for a living
I'm just ticking off the days till I die
Oh, I miss you Sydney
6. Joshua Radin, "Winter". Listen to when: Sydney is at Nadia's funeral.
Lyrics:
And I remember the sound
Of your November downtown
And I remember the truth
A warm December with you
But I don't have to make this mistake
And I don't have to stay this way
If only I would wake
7. Fleetwood Mac, "Beautiful Child". Listen to when: Sydney talks to Cesar.
Lyrics:
You fell in love when I was only ten
The years disappeared
Much has gone by since then
I bite my lip, can you send me away
You touch
I have no choice
I have to stay
I had to stay
8. Matt Nathanson, "Maid". Listen to when: Sydney and Sark reunite.
Lyrics:
Hello, my foul weather friend
My ears are always open to your laments
and my will is always weak for your advances,
and I'll play the maid and clean up the mess.
Your face, I look at your face and it's changed since we last spoke
it s weathered and beautiful,
so weathered and so beautiful
please have a seat, I was going anywhere
but that can wait
because I'd rather have you here while I can
then I'll pack it all up and take you with me again.
My ears are always open to your laments
and my will is always weak for your advances,
and I'll play the maid and clean up the mess.