Reconciliation

In their new hotel room, Calvin was long since asleep. He was jubilant all the way back, despite the cut on his neck. In Sydney's opinion, he wasn't freaked out enough.

Sark had to hit him upside the head for a reality check.

Sark came out of the shower dressed only from the waist down. Sydney noticed immediately.

His jeans barely hung on his hipbone. The boxers he wore peaked above the waistline. Sydney moved her eyes up from there, until they took a detour to the gash in his side.

Right. Focusing now . . .

"Come here," she said, patting the bed she sat on. She had bandages and ointment ready, and a needle and stitching as well, if necessary.

Sark sat by her. He kept his eyes on the floor. He flinched when she touched his skin. Sydney tried not to take that personally. She examined the wound. It was deep, but thankfully so off-center that nothing was at stake. There were several layers of skin exposed, little peaks of white, raw pink and red dermal sections. The wound still bled, but the worst was over.

"Lie down, and hold still," she said to him. She grabbed some antiseptic solution as he fell back on the bed. His jaw tightened as she poured the solution over the wound.

She opened a gauze packet, and squeezed a large amount of ointment over the cloth. She let it sit on top of the wound while she got the medical tape ready.

His eyes followed her, but whenever she looked directly at him, he glanced away. Sydney pursed her lips and roughly taped the gauze down.

Sark grunted and jerked his body away. "Sydney, I can appreciate your anger, but please don't make it so physical."

Sydney rolled her eyes.

"I thought you could handle pain better," she said, half-teasing him. He didn't say anything, and silence settled like heavy dust.

"I called my father," Sydney said, hoping to ease the awkwardness. "He arranged for your mother to fly back to Canada. He's meeting her there, and will look after her."

Sark nodded. "Thank you."

And the silence—it might as well have been an iron curtain.

"So what now?" Sydney asked. "Scotland?"

Sark nodded. "It's all we have, but I'm not too worried. Yielding will make sure I find him."

Sydney squinted as she thought about that. Her hands worked quickly to clean up the gauze and supplies. "Do you think he'll let your dad or Ilene go?"

"My dad. He'll let him go next," he said confidently. "It'll be the last bit of information to lead us to Yielding, and Ilene."

Sydney didn't doubt it. But she had no idea what Sark would do then—just as she had no idea what he planned tonight. She honestly believed he had been giving up.

Could he just give up like that? More importantly, would he in the future?

"What are you going to do, when we're close enough?"

Sark sat up. It must have been too quickly, because he weaved a bit. Sydney steadied him with a warm hand. She could feel the tension in his body. He was in such pain, and not just physical. She'd seen it before, too many times.

Sydney scooted back until she rested against the headboard. Sark watched her with curiosity, until she pulled at his shoulders. He sighed softly, but she heard it. Sydney ignored it and brought him closer to her.

He rested, leaning against her as she held him. It was comforting—the warmth, the silence. Awkwardness still lingered between them, but Sydney ignored it as well. She just held him.

"Sydney," he said suddenly, almost making her jump.

"Yeah?" She ducked her head forward, and her hair fell onto his shoulder. She felt him shudder from the contact, and she smiled.

He didn't say anything for a moment. He's debating about something.

"I think I have to let them go this time," he said. Sydney leaned forward and used one hand to turn Sark's face toward her.

"What?"

"My family," he said softly, eyeing Calvin. "I have to let them go this time. No more being near them. It's not enough to protect them."

"Sark," she said, her forehead wrinkled in confusion, "what are you thinking?"

He pulled his head away from her grasp and eyed his feet with sudden interest.

"Faking my death, constantly keeping an eye on them . . . it's not working," he said. "As long as I'm around, they know too much, and they become targets."

"You can't just leave them." He can't, not after all he's done to be with them again. It wasn't fair to his family, much less him.

Sark smirked. "No, they wouldn't stand for that, would they?" Sydney began to breathe again. "No," Sark continued. "I'd have to make them believe I was dead again."

She froze. And then she shoved him away from her. Sark almost face-planted on the bed.

"They deserve better than that, Sark," she said. Calvin stirred but settled without waking. Sydney stood up and started pacing through the hotel room. "You deserve better!"

"Not to sound snobby, but I agree. However, that doesn't change the failures in the last year," he said. He sat up straight, watching her intently. She didn't like it; he was convinced—she knew that look—and now he was trying to convince her. "Ilene was kidnapped last Christmas. Irina hid the rest of my family from me. Now I have intelligence agencies holding my family hostage. I've faked my death so many times now that no one's buying it."

Sydney jumped on the point. "Exactly, so why would they believe it if you faked your death again?"

Sark sighed. "It'd have to be convincing, at least to my family."

She froze again. Just his family? "What about the rest of the world?"

Those smooth shoulders just shrugged. "It doesn't matter what they think. They'll still seek me out."

"Then what would you do?" Sydney stepped closer to him, hesitantly as if she expected something that could hurt.

"Run. Survive. But away from the ones I love."

Her heart stopped, and Sark looked away. "You're not just talking about them."

Sark didn't move a muscle, but he might as well have nodded.

"Sark—"

He stood up abruptly and pushed past her. "Don't fool yourself, Sydney. We're not even sure this will work. It obviously isn't a priority to either of us, so why waste the time and put ourselves in danger?"

Sydney felt like she was drowning. A lump rose in her throat and she could feel the tears fighting to the foreground. She quickly swiped at them.

"Are you . . ." Another swipe at the tears. "How could you just . . . give up on us?"

Sark sighed. It wasn't just from fatigue, or avoidance. It was sadness, and it rang through Sydney's body.

"It's not giving up. It's giving them, and you, a chance at something that would work. A life as real as you want to make it, without the risks that I bring to the table."

It was Sydney's turn to sit. She stared at Calvin, her heart aching at what he would have to go through if Sark carried out this latest plan. She thought about Ilene, the gorgeous smile she always wore, the light she seemed to exude. Would that disappear with Sark gone? There was such a connection between the two of them . . . What price would they all pay?

"Sark," she said too quietly, "you've sacrificed so much already. . . ." Her voice caught in her throat.

She saw him look at Calvin, then to her. He nodded slowly. "At least I'm willing to make a sacrifice."

He turned and grabbed a shirt and his room key, and he left the room. Sydney's chest heaved with every pump of her heart, and every thought she had made her want to cry.

She was too stunned to go after him, especially when she thought about his words. He wasn't just talking about his family. Sydney knew, somehow, that he compared his efforts to hers.

To how little hers had been. Sure, she made plenty of effort for the CIA, and to help Sark in these crises. But in everyday life? It was nothing compared to what Sark gave up—he'd altered his whole life.

And suddenly she knew why he favored this plan—why he would give it all up again and live a lonely life of regret and pain.

Because she wasn't willing to give up anything at all.

---------

She was kept in a room this time, separate from her father. But the rooms were lavish. They were also old. Ilene could smell the dust.

Victorian furniture and décor . . . four post bed with a canopy . . . large mirrors and wardrobes.

The wardrobe was even stocked, nothing as lavish as the room, but changes of clothes that Ilene appreciated after days of confinement.

The Brits kept the door locked. There was a window—she could open it, but it was barred on the outside. Did they do that with prisoners in mind? She sighed, and decided to test the shower.

Fresh jeans and a t-shirt. Ilene added a sweater over it. It was cold out here, wherever here was. Ilene stood by the window, looking out at the expansive countryside. The area was remote; better for Yielding's intentions. She sighed again as she thought about the agent.

He was so intent on pretending he was the good guy. Justice mattered more than doing the right thing, and that annoyed her. Like those people who poke their eyes out so they can't see what they're doing wrong.

Who actually pokes their own eyes out?

She shook her head.

Suddenly she heard gunshots. She looked for the source, and found it outdoors.

In the middle of the field was Agent Yielding. He was firing several shots at a target more than 50 meters away. From her vantage point, Ilene could see the fierceness in his eyes.

And it made her sick. Ilene tried to shut the curtains to block out the sight. But the curtains fell heavily to the floor with her force.

Her eyes fell on a vase, and she picked it up in her rage. She threw it at the barred window, and it hit the glass. Both shattered loudly, shedding shards through the window and the bars.

"You pig!" she yelled as loudly as she could. She doubt Yielding would hear her, but she cursed him in her mind, over and over again. In her rage, she didn't realize the shooting stopped.

---------

He heard the crash—how could he not?—and automatically identified the source as Ilene's room. Alan sighed and holstered his gun.

That girl is more trouble than her brother. Sark was at least predictable. He's a criminal; they're all predictable.

But Ilene was . . . a handful.

Yielding stormed inside the manor. It was normally a peaceful place, long ago abandoned by parliament. MI6 swooped in and purchased it, for "various operations." But its elegant charms were lost on Alan this time. While he normally enjoyed fulfilling his duty, Ilene was making it hard to do so this time. Her constant accusations annoyed him.

It was more than that, but Yielding banished the thought as he charged through the manor, until one of his agents, Agent Patricks, met him in a hallway.

"Agent Yielding," the agent said, "The crash was just a vase and the window, sir, from her room." Alan rolled his eyes. No one even called her by name. 'She' and 'her' could only refer to the most frustrating charge any of them had ever had.

"Any risk of her escaping?" he asked. Patricks shook his head. Alan nodded and moved on.

"Agent Yielding," the agent called out, halting Alan. He stopped and faced Patricks. "Would it be more prudent, under the circumstances, if we released her next?"

Yielding could feel his heart rate speed up, fueled by such second-guessing.

"No, the father will be next," he said quickly. "Sark followed Ilene to great lengths before. He'll do it again."

Alan turned and paced away from Patricks. A nagging voice in his head congratulated him for such quick thinking, but Alan ignored it. The decision was sound reason, nothing more or less.

If you believe that.

He sighed and went to his quarters. Yielding threw off his suit and quickly changed into something more comfortable--khaki cargoes, and a polo shirt. He went to his bag of things, packed specifically for this excursion, and he pulled out a sketch pad.

It wasn't something that he could admit to, or show to anyone in MI6. It was known that he had a hand for sketches, which he put to use to identify criminals. But he used the skill to relax as well.

He dug out a piece of graphite, sat at the desk, and started to sketch. Only two fingers touched the graphite, his thumb and middle finger. His hands moved over the paper, sometimes in long, curved strokes. Other movements were mere dots or spikes. Alan's eyes burned into the paper as he worked.

Alan labored steadily for fifteen minutes, until it was finished. The graphite was tossed aside, and also the pad of paper while Alan leaned back, away from the desk.

He didn't have to look at it. He didn't have to draw it. The image was someone he never met.

But the face was emblazoned in his mind from a surveillance photo he'd studied too long over the years.

Justice. For you, Sean. Alan nodded to himself, clutching his fists in an oath to himself to do what he'd promised—not just to his fallen comrade, but to his government and to his conscience. For the good of society overall.

A knock interrupted his concentration.

"Agent Yielding." It was Davenport, a lackluster agent with a penchant for conveniently moving slowly in dangerous raids.

"Yes," he acknowledged.

"She's asking for you," Davenport said. Yielding laughed tiredly. He rubbed his hands over his face.

"She can wait," he said. He could almost hear the objection Davenport debated on voicing, and then the shuffle of the agent's feet as he retreated. "Davenport."

The agent stopped. "Yes sir?"

"Find out where Sark is." He could almost hear him nod, and then there was quiet in the room.

Yielding leaned back in his chair, facing the windows. The sun had set, leaving a dark exterior and the freakish call of night life. Even with the closed windows, Alan could hear the crows crying out. It was haunting, but he was used to it.

Alan sighed, and his whole body loosened. His shoulders sagged, and his legs were rubbery. You haven't slept in a while.

He pulled himself out of the chair and collapsed on the bed, landing on his stomach and chest. He didn't plan on sleeping long. Just a few minutes . . . He fell asleep too quickly, but let himself go.

The crows had stopped their noise when he woke. The light in his quarters was still on, but he knew it was late. Alan glanced at his watch.

Four a.m. It was beyond late. More like early.

He rolled out of bed and straightened his polo shirt. He weaved a bit and had to grasp one of the bedposts to stand straight until the dizziness passed. He went to the bathroom and splashed some water on his face. As he dried off the droplets of water, Alan caught his reflection in the mirror. The water got into his hair. He fingered through it and sighed.

He was up, for several hours at least. Might as well do something. A grin passed over his face as he came up with something to do.

Yielding left his quarters and walked through the manor. He made his footsteps quiet. Through the hallways were other agents, at their posts.

But sleeping.

Yielding frowned at their clueless forms. He walked right up to one agent and was about to yell into the man's ear when he had a change of heart.

Let them rest, for now. He himself hadn't slept; evidently, he wasn't alone. But he planned on chewing out the agents later.

Alan continued through the manor, up the stairs to where his bait stayed. Both guards on the floor were asleep.

Yielding paused outside the father's door, satisfied when he heard the man's obnoxious snoring. Alan couldn't help but smirk at that. He went on, and listened at Ilene's door. He heard stirring, which relieved him.

At least she hasn't escaped.

He raised his hand to knock on the door, and paused. What are you going to do? He shrugged and knocked anyway. She did ask for me a few hours ago.

But she didn't answer the door. Alan frowned. He knocked again, this time at least making one of the guards stir. But nothing from Ilene's room.

He quickly removed his set of keys and unlocked the door. He pushed it open, slowly, in case . . .

His eyes searched the dark room as he stepped inside. And then he saw something flying at his head. Alan ducked just as the last moment, and the object hit the wall noiselessly.

Another object came at him, this time with Ilene holding it. As it hit him, Yielding almost laughed.

Pillows! Her weapon of choice, he thought as he blocked a second swing. Ilene was tireless in her vigor to hit him. Alan managed to shut the door behind him and block another blow.

He caught an end of the pillow, and pulled it from Ilene's grasp. It was then that he noticed her eyes. They were furiously blue, alive and very obviously miffed. Her eyes stared at him as she slowed her breath from her exertion.

And then she reached for another weapon, this one a candlestick by her bed. Alan charged her, trying to close the distance and prevent the hit. He slammed into her, and the two of them fell back on the bed. The charge worked, but her elbow caught him in his back.

Alan grunted at that and pushed himself off of her. He stood up, and backed away from her, unable to hide a wince at the sharp pain that traveled up his nerves.

He swore under his breath.

"What do you want, Ilene?" he asked. He pulled his arm over his shoulder, trying to rub away the pain of her jab.

"What do I want? You're the one who came here," she said with hands at her hips. Alan tried not to roll his eyes.

"Because you asked me to."

She threw up her hands like a drama queen. "Eight hours ago!"

Oh please, I'm a near-perfect agent for MI6, and she thinks I'm a waiter?

"I'm not at your beck and call."

She smiled victoriously, as if he stepped right in the trap she wanted. "And yet, here you are."

He rolled his eyes finally. "Fine." Alan turned to leave.

"You say you're a good guy, and yet you're preparing to shoot him." It seemingly came from nowhere. Alan stopped and turned back to her.

"That's what this is about?" he asked.

"Don't look at me—you're the one shooting targets," Ilene said. Her mouth was curved in a tempestuous scowl. Alan had to sigh. He understood that no one would lie down peacefully while he went after someone they cared about. But this was his job, his duty. And Sark was dangerous.

"I don't know what your brother will do. He may—"

"What?" Ilene interrupted. "Kill your agents when he comes?"

Alan nodded with a stern scowl of his own. "It wouldn't surprise me."

"Well, it would surprise me," she said, folding her arms this time.

"Better prepare yourself then," Alan said. He shook his head, more at her than anything, and turned to leave.

"I haven't had one Christmas with Julian since he was 16."

Where did that come from? "I'm sorry?"

Ilene continued. "I was kidnapped by Strachen on December 23rd—kind of kills Christmas."

Alan glanced around the room, making a show of his indifference. "Am I supposed to feel sorry for you? While there are children whose parents are dead because of what Sark does?"

Ilene threw her hands in the air, and Alan feared another rampage. But then she stopped, as if she suddenly checked her rage away. For what?

"When we were growing up, we had this tradition of opening up one gift each on Christmas Eve. We'd draw names of whose gift would be opened early in December. The gift opened would always be something . . . grand. Something really thoughtful or personal. Sometimes it'd even be expensive, but that wasn't the point." Ilene stopped, staring at the floor as if she was again composing herself. "Julian drew my name last year. I was really . . . I could hardly wait to see what he got me—especially being the first Christmas he was back."

Alan was trying not to roll his eyes, just as he was trying not to care what she was talking about. But he allowed himself one question of interest.

"So what did he get you?"

Ilene shrugged and dropped her arms to her sides. She stared into Alan's eyes. "I don't know. Things were too hectic, even after Strachen. Julian moved us to Canada," she said. "I guess he gave us a lot there. He bought my parents a house, me an apartment . . . Maybe those were the gifts." She paused again. "But I think he had something else."

Alan took a step towards her, bringing him within a meter of her. He told himself it was to see her eyes, to see if she was telling the truth or just trying to dent his emotional shield.

Those eyes were so blue and innocent. His heart sped up and he couldn't let go what it was telling him.

He leaned towards her, slowly, centimeter by centimeter. And she didn't move away.

His lips gently brushed hers, and he pulled back for a moment, gauging her reaction. He didn't see any as her eyes were on the floor. So he leaned in again . . .

And she tipped her head down, dodging his kiss.

He couldn't help but glare at her. Was she purposely leading me on with the first move? Alan stepped away as anger flooded him.

"Well, I'll make sure Sark can get you something from whatever British prison he's incarcerated at."

Ilene pulled back like he'd slapped her. Her eyes were wide, not from any fury but actually hurt.

And then, as if she flipped a switch somewhere, her eyes were fiery.

"I hope he does come in here, shooting to kill you all."

He didn't answer that. He knew he deserved it. So Alan just turned and left. He slammed the door behind him, and the two sleeping guards jolted awake. Alan didn't even lecture them or shoot them a glare.

a/n: the drawing Yielding did was of Sark. I couldn't post it here, but oh well!