Chapter Twenty:

Dead for a Year

"Come with me."

Sydney stared blankly at the man in front of her, as if she was seeing a ghost. He is a ghost. Michael is dead. Dead, dead, dead. And if he wasn't, he was being held in some US Government facility somewhere. Not standing on her doorstep.

Except he was standing on her doorstep. Looking rather like hell, but not bad for someone who'd been dead for a year. She wanted to ask him what had happened to him, where he'd been that he hadn't been able to get in touch with her for the past year, how he'd found her. She did none of those things. She simply wrapped her arms around him and collapsed against him, sobbing.

It took her a moment to realize that he wasn't returning her embrace. She pulled back away from him, eyes full of tears and confusion. "Michael, what--"

"Is he here?"

Sydney took a step back, gasping. He knew. But how-- oh, God, it didn't matter how. She had to say something soon, to get rid of whatever images that were undoubtedly going through Michael's head. "No, he's not here," she said quickly. "We haven't been-- I mean--"

"Oh, God, I don't care," Michael cut her off. She had never seen his eyes so full of-- well, hurt, disgust, anger. But love, too. There was still love there. "I mean, I do, I hate what you've done--"

"Oh, Michael, I--"

"Let me finish!" he cut in, his voice harsher than she had ever heard it. At least, harsher than she'd heard it directed at her. "I hate what you've done, but I know I'll get past it, someday, and I'm not going to let a little thing like you--" he curled his hands into fists, looking past her, not at her. "--like you fucking that bastard Sark get in the way of what I have to do."

His words tore through her. She wanted to do a million things, to cry, to explain. Instead she asked, her voice soft, "What do you have to do, Michael?"

Suddenly he looked right at her, into her, his green eyes pleading, imploring. "I have to run away, tonight. And I need you and the children to come with me."

"Michael, what--"

"I'll explain it all later, but Sydney, right now, you have to trust me." His eyes were so hopeful, so-- oh, damaged-- that she nearly wanted to cry. "You have to pack bags for yourself and the kids, and find any cash you have stashed around the house, and you have to come with me."

"Michael, do you know how you sound?" she asked, suddenly finding the power to form a coherent sentence. "We tried to run before, remember? It ended with me thinking you were dead for a year. My mother--"

"Sydney, before we were running to make a deal with the CIA," Michael cut in. "This has nothing to do with the CIA, nothing to do with bringing your mother to justice. I think we both know how futile that battle is. This only has to do with us, you and me. Come with me."

It occurred to Sydney that they were still standing in the entryway of her apartment. Somewhere in her mind, it occurred to her that she should invite him in, ask if he wanted to sit down. There would be time enough for that later. "But my mother--"

"Sydney," Michael interrupted. This time his voice was strong, firm. "I can't tell you that the entire last year has been an orchestration of your mother's, but I can tell you that she has used the situation to her advantage, and that she has known that I was alive for a very, very long time."

Sydney just stared at him, eyes full of tears. The saddest part was that she didn't doubt for a moment that the words were true.

"Sydney, if you love me, if you even care about me at all, you'll come with me."

There were so many things she wanted to ask him. So much that the two of them were going to have to work through. She didn't hesitate before giving him an answer.

"Okay."