a/n: Thank you all for your patience with this. I want to thank sallene for reading this and helping me out. Enjoy! I have another chapter ready, and will post it a couple of days after this.

As Time Passes

Christmas Day

The streets were light in traffic and crowds. Sark walked through them. His dark brown hair and tanner skin didn't mask his origins, but he spoke as a native, and that was good enough for just about anyone.

Changi International Airport supposedly had excellent security. But Sark got past it after he left Vancouver. It was risky, coming to Singapore. The reputation for its police and security was well-deserved. But it also made it safer for him. Not too many assassins looking for me here. For most it'd be a death trap.

It was warm outside. Humid. Sark dressed appropriately in shorts and a t-shirt. Scars on his arms drew a few looks, but Sark brushed them aside. The scars were starting to fade. Sunglasses wrapped around his eyes, more for added disguise than because of the sun. He walked with one hand in a pocket of his shorts; he was just strolling.

He expected Christmas Day to be busier, just like any day, but the people enjoyed the day with family. One walked by him, father, mother, giggling child . . .

Sark averted his eyes from them, and stared ahead. A city river ran by the street, and Sark headed closer to it. Various small pleasure boats peppered the water, and he could hear laughter from each. A glare from the sun hit a ripple of water, blinding Sark for a moment.

He walked on, blinking to clear his vision. The sun was out in full force right now, and Sark felt a trickle of sweat slide down the side of his torso. Heat was constant here. After a few months of it, he was getting tired.

Maybe it's time to move on. He'd stayed in Singapore long enough. Maybe too long. He stayed low and to a degree, enjoyed himself, almost as if Singapore was a vacation. But boredom set in now.

Part of him wanted to check up on things in the intelligence world. He wanted to see if any news buzzed about him. But poking his head up to find out would only shift the target on him.

He also wanted to see where his family was and how they were. But that just wasn't an option. I'd rather not know, just in case . . . In reality, he didn't want to tempt himself with doubt and longing to go back to them.

It was the same for Sydney. Though if he looked in on her, she would sense it. She knows anyway. You told her, remember? It didn't matter, though. She hadn't found him, and though it pained him, he took it as another good sign.

Sark glanced over his shoulder and raised his arm at a passing taxi. The vehicle slowed to a stop, and Sark got in.

As the taxi moved to his destination, Sark looked back at the river, one last time.

--------

The bagel was so hard. Sydney grimaced at the offending bread, and tossed it in a waste basket.

She swiveled her chair back to the computer screen, and punched the letters on her keyboard. This post-mission report was boring, just as the mission had been.

Maybe not too boring . . . It was difficult, dangerous. The CIA sent her to Hong Kong, on this "emergency mission." She sighed.

"Sydney." It was Dixon. His stern jaw and kind eyes demanded opposite reactions of fear and friendship, but Sydney just smiled sweetly at him. "I just wanted to thank you."

Sydney blinked. "For what?" She leaned back from the computer.

"I know things have been hard for you. Since the . . . Sark thing. But you still helped us out, in Hong Kong." Dixon paused, studying his shoes for a moment before continuing. "You're an invaluable asset. Which is why I wanted to give you a heads up on a situation that may need your help."

Sydney almost groaned.

"We're getting intel on a new terrorist organization," Dixon said. "Once we get enough firm data, we'll send you and a team in." He smiled tightly. "If you're up to it."

Sydney flashed him a fake smile. If you're up to it. She almost snorted. While Dixon was trying to be sensitive, it almost seemed like a challenging jab. Dixon left, returning to his office. Sydney swiveled back to her computer.

She blinked a few times, trying to resume her train of thought. Her fingers typed away, but as she stared at the screen, it wasn't making sense.

Not the words—but what she was doing. She sighed and pushed herself away from the computer again. She used both of her hands to simultaneously tuck her hair back behind her ears.

Why? The past few months were . . . difficult beyond words. After Sark disappeared, she stayed with his family. Or, rather, she helped them move and be safe. The accounts Sark gave Sydney access to held plenty to relocate them. But relocating them, setting them up in a Drayton, Alberta . . . That was easy. Getting them to live again was hard. And it took its toll on Sydney as she watched it.

She was so angry at him. He knew it would hurt all of them, and yet he did it! No matter what his noble intentions in protecting them, Sydney was sure the decision was selfish.

No, it wasn't. But that didn't make it a good decision either.

She'd been back at CIA whenever they "needed" her, and now she was basically always in Los Angeles. It made sense, since she lived here, and since Alan Yielding was practically living with Sark's family. But Sydney found Canada to be home, with them. A part of her could never leave them.

Just as a part of her could never leave Sark.

She sat back, staring at the computer screen without seeing. What are you waiting for anymore?

Slowly, she leaned forward to the bottom drawer of her desk. She opened it, and stared at the paper within before touching it. Her eyes scanned over the document, which she printed three weeks ago.

Her fingers felt numb, but she picked up her pen and crossed out the date, correcting it. January 29th. The pen moved to the bottom of the page, and she signed there.

The numbness seemed to spread to her legs as she made her way to Dixon's office.

"Sydney," he greeted. She didn't even glance away as she laid the document on his desk. He immediately went to read it, but Sydney didn't wait. She turned and walked away, turning back only to say one thing over her shoulder.

"Goodbye, Dixon."

Inside, she felt shaky and unsure. But she knew that if Sark could see her, wherever he was, he'd be cheering her.

--------

He only returned to London for money—just to take care of some administrative-type things with an account. But it was stupid, he realized.

London was flush with people who wanted Sark dead. That was made very clear to him by two ambitious hitmen.

Well, one was a hit-woman. A couple, so to speak. They cornered him as Sark was just getting some Chinese food after visiting the bank.

Sark overturned the table he was at, and ducked behind it as gunfire rang out. The couple used automatic machine guns, and Sark found himself nicked by a few bullets.

Suddenly, he kicked the table away from him and into the couple. He got to his feet as he pulled out his gun, all in one fluid motion. His shots sounded steadily.

The hitman was down, but the woman was more ambitious—maybe because Sark had just killed her lover, or something.

Sark covered himself with some shots as he ran out the back door. London's populous screamed as the skirmish continued. In the distance, Sark heard sirens, and that made him swear under his breath.

So much for relying on disguises. He'd have to do something about this red hair when he had time to catch his breath.

"Sark!" The female assassin screamed after him. What, should I turn around and wait for the bullet? He smirked at the woman's silliness.

His feet hit the pavement hard as he ran. The woman was left behind, or so he hoped. He wasn't about to turn around and see how close she was.

Just escape, disappear, and don't return.

He turned a corner and almost ran into a car. Of all things, it was a police car. It screeched as Sark's body came within inches of it. He could see the bewildered policeman inside, blinking with wide eyes at the close encounter.

Sark took off again.

"Hey!" the articulate policeman yelled. Other sirens closed in, and Sark almost ran into another official vehicle. But he didn't stop or avoid it. Sark clenched his jaw and ran full speed at the vehicle. He jumped on the hood and ran over the car.

"Hold it right there!"

Did they really expect him to stop? The smirk was back.

One of them fired, and suddenly it was a trigger-happy party. Sark couldn't help but duck as he ran, hearing bullets whiz by and hit objects around him.

He didn't stop running until he was certain he lost them. He boarded a tourist bus, on its way to the airport. Perfect.

Too bad it was Heathrow. Sark preferred smaller, quieter airports, but beggars can't be choosers.

Sark bought a first-class ticket to the United States, and only breathed his sigh of relief when the plane's landing gear was stowed.

--------

Ilene sounded cheerful whenever she spoke of Alan, but Sydney could still hear the strain of sadness.

"He makes me happy, Sydney," she said. "And I think he really cares for me." Sydney rolled her eyes at that.

"I think that's an understatement," she said. "He's crazy about you. I could tell that the first time I saw him stare at you."

Ilene giggled on the other end of the phone. "Well, I mean, he's given up so much already to be with me. It's sweet."

Sweet. That too was an understatement. When a man you love gives up his life just to be with you, that's not just sweet.

It was heart-wrenchingly touching. Soul-touching. It made you feel like the world didn't matter, that you could conquer anything.

And yet . . .

She stopped herself there as her phone beeped. Sydney pulled I back and saw her father calling in.

"Hey, Ilene, I have to go."

"We'll see you soon, right?" Ilene said. Sydney smiled into the phone.

"Of course." She hit a button. "Dad."

"Sydney," he said quickly. "Sark just popped up in London."

She jumped to her feet and began pacing in her apartment.

"He's in London!" Her heart sped up. He's still alive. And just a plane ride away . . .

"No," Jack said. Sydney's heart sank back to earth-level. "He evaded a hit in London. I'm in the middle of checking the airports' security surveillance."

"He probably left the country quickly," Sydney thought aloud, connecting with her father's train of thought.

"I just wanted you to know," Jack said. "I'll let you know as soon as I find out where he went."

He hung up almost immediately, and Sydney marveled at how confident he was in finding Sark.

But her father had the resources. He still was with the CIA, and Sydney couldn't deny the benefits of having someone in the intelligence world.

Her father wasn't surprised when she resigned from the CIA. He questioned her judgment, of course, but he supported her when it was clear that she had made up her mind.

It only took me . . . how long to decide it? She shook her head to herself. Inside, she knew she should have left months ago. While I still had Sark . . .

She shook her remorse aside. He evaded a hit squad. People were still after him. He was right—it wouldn't end just because he wanted to leave that life behind.

But he's alive! All this time of not knowing, all the stress that placed on her was suddenly lifted.

And replaced by fear. She wasn't the only one who would notice Sark was alive. After months of dead-silence, the intelligence world would get another wakeup call that Sark lived.

Dread filled Sydney's heart. The hits on his life would renew.

Please be safe, she willed out to the void, hoping to connect with him. Please . . . stay alive, for me.

--------

Jack moved on to the next surveillance footage. Sark entered Heathrow, less than an hour after the attempted hit on his life. Jack lost him after he entered, but he knew Sark had to have bought a ticket or checked in somewhere.

And he did. British Airways. A ticket agent processed Sark's ticket. Jack zoomed in on the footage, trying to see the ticket as it was passed to Sark.

Too blurry. Jack pulled back, and tried the agent's computer. The agent's shoulder blocked most of the screen, but Jack could still see something. He zoomed in again.

There. The passenger name read . . . William Something. What is it? Jack tried to filter the noise out. The last name cleared a bit, but . . .Patricks. William Patricks.

Now where did you go, Mr. Patricks? The last name fit, what with Sark's red hair. Not the best color, Sark.

Jack slowly went through the footage, looking for any hole to the screen. There. The agent leaned over to get a printout of the ticket. Jack froze the screen and zoomed in.

Miami. He picked up the phone.

"Weiss," he said. "Pull the passenger manifests for all flights departing Miami within the last 24 hours."

"Sure," Weiss answered. "Who am I looking for?"

"William Patricks."

He had to find where Sark went. Not for the CIA, not for giving the man his own piece of mind, but for Sydney.

She deserved better, better than Sark, the self-sacrificing ex-terrorist. She deserved the man she loved within Sark.

And Jack was willing to do anything now to make sure she was happy for good.

--------

Ilene smiled at Alan's joke as they left the movie theater. It was forced, but he didn't take offence.

"Hey, why don't we get something to eat?" he suggested. Ilene nodded. As they walked through the streets, she stared at the concrete ground. A few times she glanced at Alan.

His face was tense. She knew it was because of how she was acting. She sighed quietly to herself.

She wondered where Julian was now. He didn't die that day in British Columbia; he wasn't clumsy enough for that. And she knew he probably meant to go . . . to keep us safe. That was her theory, anyway. He'd done it before; he could do it again. At least his motivations changed.

She was pretty sure it was planned. Her parents never spoke of it; it was just assumed that Julian was gone, in some way or another. Calvin and Ilene spoke of it once. They debated for hours if Julian was dead or just gone.

Alan sighed all of a sudden. Ilene shot him another glance, and her heart sank. This wasn't fair to him, she knew. Their relationship had dwindled, at least to her. Even though his presence made her live after Julian's disappearance, that had waned now. She couldn't help but wonder where he was.

It wasn't just for her sake, but Sydney's as well. Sydney had become the perfect friend, almost a sister to her. Though she stayed in Los Angeles now, Sydney and Ilene still spoke often. And the tone was always the same.

Sydney missed Julian. It frustrated Ilene, because she knew Sydney at least had a heads-up in his vanishing act. But that meant that she might know how to find him. Ilene had asked Sydney that once, but Sydney said she was just as surprised when that assassin tried to kill him.

And that led Ilene back to square one in her theories.

Alan suddenly stopped walking. Ilene stopped and let her eyes study him with some concern. Before she could ask what was wrong, he started speaking.

"Ilene, there's something you should know."

Oh no, she thought. Here it comes. He was going to bring up their relationship. She couldn't seem too surprised. She could sense his frustration about it—to him, Julian was getting in the way, even after being gone.

"I know you still miss him," Alan began. I was right, Ilene thought. "And I don't blame you. But there's something you should know."

Ilene's eyebrows scrunched together as she waited.

"What?"

"Sark staged that attack in Vancouver," Alan said. A huge sigh left his lips, as if this information weighed heavily on him. Ilene raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, I know that." Does he think I'm stupid?

"You do?" Alan, on the other hand, looked stupid. "You knew we were planning it?"

We?! Ilene's eyes flashed as she felt a surge of anger go through her.

"We?" she said aloud. Alan started to nod, and then froze. "You both were planning it?"

"I was just helping—I was still in London at the time, remember?" Alan said. His tone became defensive. Ilene advanced on him.

"Yes, I remember," she spat out. "I knew, once it happened, that Julian probably planned it. We both know he's too good to get killed." She swallowed quickly. "What I didn't know was that you helped him!"

Her face was close to his, challenging him to deny it. Her heart raced with anger and she could feel her muscles tighten in her arms.

"Well, I didn't . . . execute the plan or anything. I just knew what he was planning," Alan said. Ilene's eyes flashed and she opened her mouth to rail on him. "Wait, wait—before you kill me, please." He paused and Ilene gave him a moment to spill whatever other secrets he had. "Sark asked me. He asked me to look after you, and your family."

Ilene rolled her eyes, but it was a mask for a stab at her heart. Is that the only reason he came back?

"Well, consider your mission fulfilled then," she hissed at him. Ilene spun around on one foot to run from him, but he caught her arm.

"Please, Ilene, let me make it up to you," he said. How typical is that? She rolled her eyes for him to see. "Please, if I knew where he was now, I'd tell you. Anything, please!"

She glared at him and shrugged off his grip on her arm.

"Don't bother." With that, she ran from him. She heard him yell after her, but Ilene didn't want to hear any more excuses.

How could he? How could they both do this? Anger spurned her speed. She didn't want to be mad at her brother, but he lied to her! As did Alan, which infuriated her to no end. Here she was, feeling slightly bad for not paying attention to him, and then he confesses he lied!

Men. Regardless of her relationship to them, they all were just liars.

She stopped running when she hit a string of shops by the theater. Ilene sighed and allowed herself to browse, if only to distract herself from the betrayal she felt. She passed a lingerie shop. It was the last thing on her mind, but a red sale sign tempted her in.

The shop offered various scents of body lotions and sprays in addition to spicy attire. Ilene picked up a bottle and sniffed at the lid.

"I thought I might find you here," she heard from behind her. Ilene's breath stopped as she turned.

Alan had a sad but sly grin, no doubt because of the memories such a store held to them.

"How did you know?" she asked dryly. Alan glanced to the side as he shrugged.

"Just a hunch." He stared into her eyes, but Ilene looked away. I won't be won over by those green eyes again, she thought resolutely. "Ilene, please look at me." The plea in his voice almost worked.

Suddenly she snapped her eyes up to him with a look of impatience and indifference.

"What?"

"I . . ." His voice faltered, and she saw him swallow. "I didn't know what to do." He paused, but seeing that Ilene didn't say anything, he went on. "When we were at that cabin in Scotland, Sark told me he had to leave. That was when I first realized how serious he was about protecting all of you. After he let me go, I went to London, and resigned from MI6 and then came to you. But it wasn't just some newfound loyalty to your brother that made me do it all."

Ilene tried not to show any effect from his words. She masked her emotions and the look threatening to tear at her eyes.

"What was it?"

She could almost see the relief in those green eyes as she voiced the question. To him it must have meant he had a chance, to explain.

"It was you," he said softly. "I wanted to be with you. I wanted to protect you, which is why till now I've honored Sark's plan."

Ilene finally tore her eyes away from him. She picked a tester bottle of lotion and put some on as she thought about what he said. The silence was thick; Alan didn't say anymore, but it pressured Ilene.

"You said that was all that you wanted. What about now though?" In her heart, she knew she didn't want to lose him. He meant too much to her. Julian had been her anchor in the past. But Alan was her future.

"That depends on what you want," Alan said softly. His eyes matched his tone. "What do you want?"

Ilene looked up at him as a small smile spread over her lips.

"You."