a/n: thank you to sallene for her advice!

Not Again

            "Julian?" It was Ilene this time who answered the phone.

            "Hi!" Sark was amazed at how happy he sounded. "Are you all packed?" He heard her giggle on the other end.

            "Yes, but we still have no idea where we're going."

            Sark smiled into the phone. "Go to the airport. There are tickets waiting for you under the name 'Winget.' Lyndon has new IDs for you all."

            "New IDs?!" Ilene repeated. "Why?"

            "Just a precaution," Sark reassured her. "I'll see you when you get to the airport. I'll be waiting outside the baggage claim in a black SUV."

            And he was. They came out, each with two suitcases of belongings that couldn't be parted with. Calvin chattered nervously, and Ilene had that guarded smile that proved they were related. His parents simply looked lost.

            Sark smiled and pulled alongside them.

            "Julian!" they all exclaimed. He hugged them, then hustled them into the SUV. The ride to Hamilton was filled with nervous energy and lots of questions.

            "What did you do while you were gone?"

            "Why did we leave Ireland?"

            "Why are we in Canada?"

            "Ilene almost packed four suitcases—isn't that crazy?"

            "Where are we going?"

            The last question Sark answered as he slowed down in the established neighborhood.

            "Your new home," he said. He swallowed, hoping they would like it. All eyes were forward, staring through the glass up at the three-story house.

            They filed in methodically, slowly as if they were dazed. Sark followed, gauging each reaction.

            "Wow," he heard from Ilene. Calvin just whistled.

            But his mom pointed to various features and never uttered a word. Finally she turned to her son.

            "Is this . . ."

            Sark smiled and nodded. "Yours." She still didn't say anymore. Her fingers ran over the surface of a solid dining room table. Her eyes scanned the kitchen, already outfitted with the latest in culinary technology. She opened a cabinet, finding a reserved but colorful set of dishes. In the hutch was a set of sparkling new formal dinnerware.

            His dad followed her through the house, silently as he was just as perplexed as Sark. They all stopped in the master bedroom.

            A four-post bed, king-sized, occupied the middle of the room. A sheer canopy draped it. Sark's mother ran her fingers over the fabric.

            She turned to Sark, and he saw her eyes were moist. She held a hand to her lips, hushing herself.

            A joyful sob finally escaped, and she grabbed her son and hugged him with a force well beyond her normal capacity. Sark felt his father join in.

            "Thank you," was the whisper he heard.

            Sark held them tight. "No. Thank you."




            Ilene was happy to be in Toronto, within walking distance to the university. She resumed her studies, but under a different last name.

            His family thought the new last name was excessive, but Sark insisted.

            "It's a small change to make," he had said.

            Calvin moved in with his brother, in the second apartment in Toronto. Sark found it to be warmer than any place he personally stayed in, but he was glad. He thanked the realtor, who now was on a very long vacation, courtesy of Sark's generous fees.

            Sark didn't know what the CIA had decided. Sydney hadn't surfaced, and neither had Jack. He assumed that was a good thing, to an extent. After all, Jack has the way to contact me. If he had turned that information over to the CIA, Sark would be in a cell by now.

            But just in case something should go wrong, whether instigated by the CIA or some other organization, Sark implemented another security measure. His family was beginning to think he was paranoid, but Ilene was more tolerant than the rest. Then again, she had seen firsthand the need for that paranoia.

            Each person had a beeper of sorts. With a push of a button, it emitted an emergency signal to Sark's cell phone. He drilled into his parents' minds that they must never leave it at home, but always have it on them. Ilene offered no complaints, and eventually his parents accepted the idea.

            Calvin, of course, thought it was the coolest gadget he'd ever been given. Sark had to remind him not to show it off to his college friends.

            Everyone returned to semi-normal life. His mother made friends with unsuspecting neighbors. His father conveniently found a job right up his alley. And Sark watched from the shadows.

            There was no job for him, other than the mission he'd given himself—protecting the ones he loved.

            He checked up on Sydney every now and then, via contacts. She was fine, seemingly unmolested by her own government's previous inquiries into Sark's rescue and escape. She went on with life, and Sark understood why.

            There's no way for us.

            How does a bird live in a fish's world?




            Sark paced home slowly from the grocery store. He took to walking lately. The spring air was incredibly soothing. While it was mundane and maybe a little domestic, Sark enjoyed the simplicity of a normal life.

            He was more of a watcher than anything else. He observed what occurred around him. He enjoyed the happiness his brother and sister obviously displayed in their new lives, and the felicity between his parents.

            But a dull ache in his chest never disappeared. Sark had hoped Sydney would show up someday. Whenever he walked outdoors, if he heard footsteps behind him, he had to glance over his shoulder.

            Sydney was never there.

            Such was his life. Deep down, he knew it could come to this. He knew he had to sacrifice some things, like Sydney and what he used to be.

            But not who. Sark realized that he would never obliterate the traits of the spy and assassin. He could never be remotely calm with just being Julian. So he was both, just as his mother had acknowledged, and of which all his family was accepting.

            There were no certainties in life, especially in that of a former spy. So Sark followed little routine in the ways he took around town. He trained daily in shooting and fighting. He surveilled activity outside his apartment, Ilene's, and his parents' home. Better to be prepared than caught off-guard.

            Sark snapped out of his thoughts as he took the stairs up to his apartment. He unloaded the paper bag he held, putting away milk, some fruit and Calvin's Twinkies. His brother insisted on them, saying his friends liked them.

            Sark didn't care for the friends, but their background checks revealed no reason to worry.

            Calvin invited his freshman friends over that night. Sark reluctantly sat in on the movie they watched. It was some spy thriller, and Sark had to keep from laughing.

            No intelligent spy would ever act on so little information. But of course, the brazen and emboldened spy charged through the doors of the bad guy's estate, rushing to save the girl.

            Sark froze. Would I be considered the bad guy?

            No. Probably the girl. After all, Sydney rescued him. Sark smirked at himself.

            Calvin caught the smirk and shot his brother a questioning look. Sark just smiled and shook his head. He stood and went to the kitchen.

            He kept the Petreuse hidden. No sense wasting it on Calvin. That, and he had no desire to have his brother and four freshman drunk in his apartment.

            The scent of the wine wafted to him. Sark closed his eyes, absorbing the luxury. He poured himself a modest glass and sipped it carefully.

            "Hog," he heard behind him. Sark turned to see Calvin discover his moment of luxury.

            He grinned but didn't offer Calvin any wine.

            "May I?" Calvin asked, stepping towards the bottle. Sark gracefully turned and moved the bottle out of his reach, all the while grabbing the box of Twinkies with his other hand.

            He placed the pastries between them and added his smirk.

            "Luxury shouldn't be wasted on youth," was his line to his brother. Calvin gave him a look that said he didn't buy the mini lesson.

            "It's 'time is wasted on the young,' and besides, you've been into this luxury stuff since you were 16," Calvin said. He reached for the bottle again, but Sark tipped his chin toward the living room.

            "Later," he promised. "After they leave." Calvin sighed, and ripped open a Twinkie.

            "You're not impressed with the film," Calvin commented. The corner of Sark's mouth twitched up.

            "No," he replied. "Not very realistic."

            Sark finished his wine and returned to the film.

            It was nearing the climactic ending when Sark heard his phone. The ring was different, he noticed. He flipped open the phone.

            When he read the display, his body tensed, and adrenaline flooded his body.

            Ilene. It was her alarm.

            Sark jumped from his seat and rushed to the back of the apartment. He kept his gun in the entertainment hutch in his bedroom. It and two clips of ammunition were behind a false back to the cabinet of the hutch. Sark practically tore the cabinet doors off, clawing for the gun and clips.

            Calvin rushed in the room to see Sark load a bullet in the chamber, set the safety, and tuck the gun in the back of his pants.

            "What is it?"

            "Ilene," Sark said hurriedly. He grabbed his leather jacket to hide the gun. "Stay inside. Don't leave until you hear from me."

            "Should I kick my friends out?" Calvin asked, completely prepared to do so.

            "No," Sark said. "You're safer in numbers."

            He left the room and moved quickly for the front door.

            "Julian!"

            He turned back.

            "Lock up behind me. Call and check on Mom and Dad too." He slammed the door shut and ran down the stairs to his car.

            He checked the car hastily for bombs, and then floored it to Ilene's apartment. His eyes spent more time on the rearview than ahead of him.

            Why now? Just when things were settling down . . . Just when you're comfortable, idiot!

            Nothing seemed out of place outside her apartment. Sark entered the building. Twenty-somethings went about, just laughing as they went on their normal activities for the evening. Sark couldn't hide the look on his face. It was cold, but anxious. Sark swore to himself that he'd make an example out of whoever was trying to threaten him now.

            The hallway was quiet. Sark removed his gun, flipping the safety off as he readied it.

            Sark tried the doorknob, slowly. It was locked. Sark stepped back, and after double-checking that the hallway was clear, he kicked the door as hard as he could.

            It flew open, sending splinters in the air. Sark rushed in, his gun raised and looking for danger he fully intended to eliminate.

            He froze, as did the two women in front of him. Ilene shot her brother a curious look, while the other tried to hold back a laugh.

            "Sydney," he said, obviously surprised. The gun dangled from his hand as tension started to seep from him. "What the hell is going on?"