-Alright, this is the first of MANY post 'The Telling' stories because I am in denial. Because frankly, that sucked. I am sure that the rest of the episode was great, but due to the glaringly painful ring on a certain someone's finger I don't really remember. So until J.J. 'quells my fury' (hehe) this is my only escape from the crap he aired last Sunday.

-I know, I KNOW. I have severely abused 'Sorry'. I am almost done with it but I have to get this out of my system first, all right? And of course, reviews may speed up the process. Let's hope I update better with this one;)

-You know how I love my reviews! Keep in mind that the more I get the faster I write.

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//Nearly Two Years Ago\\

He makes his way through the doorway, feet crunching on the broken glass as he surveys the remainders of what was once a home. Home was something he was never familiar with, something he had never experienced before, the word was strange to him. But he did know that the warmth you felt upon stepping into a home was no longer felt in this place. It was cold. And cold was a word he was far too familiar with.

Escaping from the CIA facilities had been more difficult than he had expected, but still he managed. The distraction of the current state of affairs for the task force took the concentration off of his particular cellblock, as he had counted on. From there he had carried out his plans as instructed by Irina, and was made aware that she could have escaped if she had felt necessary to do so, but the absence of family for so long had taken a toll on her.

He approaches the first lifeless body and unconsciously gasps upon learning the identity. He knew this day would come, he had tried to prepare himself, but nothing could have shaken the feeling of sorrow he felt as his eyes found Allison's face, twisted in anguish, contorted in pain. Allison, his Allison, lie among the debris, and the reality that this was his doing hit with the force he did not know existed. The one person he had ever felt for was gone, dead, and it was because he had asked her to take on a task he knew was suicide. She had not hesitated upon his request, she too had been consumed by the legend of Rambaldi long ago, and willingly gave up everything she knew to become Sloane's guinea pig. He had not known of their involvement, nor Irina, of course, for the CIA was not alone in their policy on fraternizing among agents. He had not wanted her to go, he was all too familiar with the abilities of the now legendary Miss Bristow, and knew that this would not end well. But he had not protested, had not voiced his fears, partly for her pride, partly for his own selfish nature. And now, as he gazed down upon something he knew he would not find again, the small flicker that had once been present in his heart became cold once again.

Finally letting his eyes leave her lifeless body, he came upon another. Her gentle beauty still present, he gazed upon her with wonder. How someone with such talent, such potential, had not been corrupted by the power she could so easily posses was beyond him. The policy of for-the-love-of-the- country had always been a mystery to him. Slowly he made his way towards her, taking the time to note the various scars left from their battle, which he had no doubt was long and brutal. As expected, her pulse was still beating, she was too strong to let go that easily. A small grin surfaced upon his grim face as he shook his head, once again amazed at the resilience of the Bristow women. Reaching inside his coat he removed his phone, dialing the necessary numbers.

"Yes."

"Phase two is underway."

"Her condition?"

"She's alive, if that's what you're inquiring."

"And our asset?"

"Not quite as lucky."

"The extraction team should be there momentarily. I assume you are prepared to take the necessary precautions?"

"Of course."

"What is Tippen's condition?"

"Unconfirmed."

"Very well, that's a loose end we don't have time to tie up. I will see you shortly."

And the line went dead. Not seconds later bright lights lit the room from behind the house. The team entered and carefully removed her from the bloody ground, careful as to not damage her further. Allison was not taken, she was no longer a priority, required to be forgotten. And she would be.

Silently he followed them into the van and slid the door shut in time to watch as Mr. Vaughn pulled up. Too late, he thought, as the icy grin once again returned. It was really too bad, the star crossed agents had worked well together. But fate was a tricky thing, and sometimes you must intervene in ones destiny to fulfill another.

~

He smiled as they carried her unconscious body into the dimly lit room. For so long he had waited for this day, waited for things to fall into place. And it had finally come. In the process he had done unimaginable things, betrayed his country, told countless lies, double-crossed his closest allies, and murdered the love of his life. He now knew that this was no small price for the outcome of his quest. They may not understand now, but they would, eventually.

"Sloane."

"Hello, Sark. Your flight was pleasant, I suspect."

"As always."

"She's beautiful, isn't she? So innocent, so peaceful, if only she knew."

"Mr. Vaughn arrived not seconds after we had left."

"As suspected."

"He is going to be a problem."

He had known this far in advance, the young couple had endured much pain to get where they were, and that was not a place he would easily leave. His love for her was not to be underestimated, and that he knew. It was a problem he had addressed far in advance, and the solution was easy. He had in-listed her for this project months ago, and she had been taught to fit his perfect mold, the right looks, the right actions, the right words; she had been trained to fill the void, and she had been trained well. Now it was only a matter of time.

"Do you doubt I had considered this already Sark? It has been taken care of. Every minute detail, every possibility, has been overseen. Nothing will get in the way of what we are to accomplish."

"Of course."

"We have other preparations to take care of Mr. Sark, as I am sure you are aware. We must not waste time, for it isn't to be taken for granted."

And with that he left her there. He had never seen Sydney Bristow quite so helpless, and the knowledge that he could inflict the change upon such a powerful human only increased his confidence. The time was coming, his thirty-year odessy would soon come to and end, and in turn serve as the beginning.

~

Gone.

She was gone. It had been six months, but every morning the realization that he would no longer wake up to her beautiful face hit him like a ton of bricks. And unlike they had told him, it did not get better. It only got worse.

He went through the daily motions of getting out of bed, showering, and getting dressed as heartlessly as he had every morning for the past 180 days. But as he looked into the mirror he reminded himself that today was different. Today he would not walk through the task force doors prepared to comb through yet another lead that he would convince himself would take them to her. Four months was the normal waiting period, but due to her high status and everyone in the agency who had ever met her, it had been postponed to six. But even at the violently persistent requests of her father and himself, they were allotted no more time. They had given up on her.

For the first month, no one spoke of anything but retrieval. Everyone had high hopes that Agent Bristow would be found in a matter of weeks.

When the second month rolled around the search died down. There was still a team assembled to the sole purpose of recovering her, but the buzz was killed.

Then came the third month, and only Carrie, Marshall, Weiss, Dixon, Will, Jack and himself still carried on as if there was still hope.

And as the fourth months hit the air was filled with doubt. Words of sorry were whispered and hope seemed to diminish. He still kept headstrong, as did Jack, but others began to accept her fate. Even Will had seemed to loose the fire that had once spurred him on.

Now, in the fifth and sixth months, people seemed as if they had forgotten, as if she was dead, and it infuriated him. Daily he was ambushed with words of apology for his loss, and he lashed out at everyone, even those closest to him. He drowned himself further into the paperwork trying to hide from reality. Until last week.

Last week was October 1. His heart had stopped that day three years ago, and the realization that she may not come back hit him hard. He had cried himself to sleep that night, ashamed that he had even considered giving up.

The next day, he called Weiss. He came over and they talked. They talked for a long time. And by the time Weiss left he had accepted the fact that she was gone.

Gone.

He would never give up on her; part of him would always look for her. But another part told him that if he kept this up it would kill him.

So today he was going out. On a date. She moved in to his complex a month after she disappeared and had always offered him a warm smile. At first he resented her, her long brown hair and deep brown eyes, they were a daily reminder. But he could not blame her for unknowingly representing something he had lost. So tonight he would give her a chance to become a friend, if nothing more.

It felt right, as if it were to happen eventually. So tonight, he would attempt to silence the screams from inside him, and ignore the feeling that this could be the end of something he loved more than anyone would ever know.