A/N: Regarding smut: Use your imagination, is all I can tell you. I don't plan to write any – if I could, I would, but I'm fourteen :P

And in answer to sallene's question . . . You ask good questions!! LOL . . . yes, that is my explanation of the scar.

Thank you, Donnie (even though I doubt you'll EVER see this) for your help in drawing my incredibly confusing diagram (even though you didn't get it either, you showed me how to draw a window), and you took me seriously about the other thing! Unbelievable!

Oh, yes, one more thing: Just assume there are forests in Argentina. Okay? Okay. ;) 

And, all that being said . . . enjoy . . .

C

*              *              *

He feels the coolness of the dawn, and warmth beside him. He lies still, in blissful enjoyment, taking in his surroundings.

The first face he sees is that of Sydney Bristow.

Has she ever been told how beautiful she looks asleep? He guesses he would not be the first to realize it. Her long brown hair spills over her face, her features completely unblemished.

He smiles when her eyes open.

After a few seconds, she turns over on her side, facing him, her face a picture of pure contentment.

"Hey," she says quietly.

He hesitates before venturing out with, "Hey."

She moves under the warm blanket, snuggling in closer. "I like it." When Sark doesn't answer right away, she goes on. "Your name. Aidan." She smiles. "It fits."

"I'm glad." He gives a slight laugh. "Although knowing you, you'll probably persist in using the name 'Sark.'"

"Which is probably the wisest thing to do, considering our lives."

"Just consider it my gift to you. It's somewhat of a rarity nowadays."

Suddenly, in the silence, he realizes. Irina had known. An evening, so very carefully constructed. She had guessed, perhaps . . .

There may be changes now, he realizes. Many.

Sydney yawns. "How much time before we have to leave?"

"Maybe two hours."

He is struck by the force of an idea, an insane hope, something he could never create in reality – "What if we didn't?"

Sydney looks at him questioningly.

"What if we didn't leave? We could just leave completely, think about it, Sydney. We could go off somewhere and just leave completely, and be out. Out. No more – no more wild Rambaldi scavenger hunts, no Sloane, no – no anything. Start over somewhere else without this."

Sydney gazes at him. "There's just no way . . . it's impossible. I mean . . ."

"No, really." He sits up, leaning against the leather of the chair as his headboard. "I mean, really think about it. It's the perfect opportunity. We could just go. There's nothing stopping us."

She follows his lead, also sitting up and letting the blanket slide off of her. "What about the Prophecy? I mean, that could be me."

"It could also be someone else. Yours is not the only profile it fits."

"But my mother -"

"There's a chance, isn't there?"

"What about this new page?"

"That I don't know," he admits. "But it could be part of any Prophecy, now Sydney, listen. We leave the page and go off, I have a hundred contacts to get us anywhere, it doesn't have to be through Irina. We can go."

Indecision fills her face. She looks away.

Come on, Sydney, he prays silently, willing her to say something, anything, yes she would, they could escape, finally, they could be free –

At that moment, bullets spray the kitchen window.

Immediately they are both up, Sark throwing on his shirt without stopping and Sydney likewise, while Sark opens the cabinet to pull out two loaded pistols. He tosses one to Sydney, and they split – Sark crawls to the kitchen door and Sydney to the general area's single door.

Sark cautiously slips through the door, gun ready and eyes darting all over.

It happens all at once – their fire and his return. His adrenaline flows, feverishly watching for any sign, any movement – more fire. He fires off several more shots, not sure of where they land – it's too difficult to see among the trees . . .

He hears equal noise from the opposite side of the house. He sends a few more shots out before darting to the back of the house and beginning again.

It takes him a second to notice the sound on Sydney's side has stopped.

In fact, it's almost completely silent.

He considers for a second, and then silently makes his way to the place where Sydney had begun.

She is nowhere.

He is hesitant to call out; instead, he circles around the building – still no sign of Sydney.

Suddenly, searing pain through his right leg – deeply shot through – he almost cries out, but rallying himself, he sends a shot towards that direction.

His last shot. He has to get back in the house. Somewhere, anywhere. But they could be inside. Sydney could be inside. He isn't sure. His blood throbbing, he slides around to the kitchen door and looks in. It appears to be empty.

Glass litters the floor – he treads carefully – he recovers his cell phone, and staying low, away from windows, he dials a number.

"Hello?"

"We were ambushed," he tells the other line quietly. "Someone knew we would be here, found us, I'm not sure. Could be anyone, the ones who attacked us yesterday. I can't find Sydney, I don't see her anywhere and I figure she would have somehow made contact with me. I myself was just shot in the leg. We need some kind of back-up, now."

"Are all targets down?"

The pain in his leg increases. "If I knew, I would've told you, now I need back-up."

"You'll get it. For now, just find her." His phone clicks off.

Again, Sark thinks bitterly. Never mind the fact I may bleed to death. He half crawls to the cabinet of ammunition and finds a good clip. He inserts it inside the gun and sets off again for the first aid. The pain has escalated to an all time high, and his every fiber burns with the effort. Dragging himself now, he sets about putting on a bandage. He begins to see the black just as he's finishing, and it grows, until he sees nothing, and the pulsing drums harder and harder until all at once, he feels nothing – only the black as he falls back onto the floor.