Title: Foul-Weather Friend
Author: waking_epiphany (Jamie)
Rating: R, currently, for language and sexy situations
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me; they belong to J.J. Abrams and Bad Robot.
Pairings: Sark/Sydney, implied past Sydney/Vaughn, implied past Sark/Lauren, implied past Sark/Alison.
Timeline: Estimating that the end of season 4 ended in the month of May, consider this to start in July of that same summer.
Summary: After suffering series of debilitating headaches and blackouts, Julian Sark takes a doctor-recommended leave from the second oldest profession in the world, espionage, only to be pulled right back into the thick of things at the arrival of a strange, scarlet envelope at his home. It contains intel concerning his longtime mentor, Irina Derevko, and there is only one other person who can help him find her. Sydney Bristow has left her life as a CIA operative to start a new life in anonymity after her sister, Nadia, is left in a coma and her fiancé, Michael Vaughn, is killed by Prophet 5, a mysterious terrorist group. She is trying to pick up the pieces of her shattered existence when a familiar enemy and sometimes associate crashes back into her life. Reluctantly, they must work together to save something invaluably important to the both of them and in the in the process, maybe even save each other.
Author’s Note: Happy Halloween, everyone! I know I say this every time, but I really think you’re going to enjoy this chapter. Halloween shenanigans abound for Sydney and Sark, we get to visit with an old friend, and we visit a beautiful, foreign city that I personally hold near and dear to my heart as a diehard Sarkney fan. A longer “Author’s Note” can be found at the end of part 2, right above the soundtrack, so don’t forget to check that out. As always, I hope not to disappoint with this chapter! Enjoy!



There was no comfort in the darkness for Sark. He was constantly haunted when the sickness took over. After one of his “episodes”, he’s feel that the torture he’d endured during (the murderous memories he had committed, the dark fantasies that had yet to come to pass, and the fleeting bouts of clarity where he could see himself doing things not of this own volition) were payback for a wicked life lived. He could and would always justify his actions and decisions in the heat of the moment, when the adrenalin and payoff were high. But in his dreams, when the sickness took over, he knew the nightmares were his ultimate payback.

It was different for Sydney. Where Sark’s inner demons finally came out to torture him for his past crimes, Sydney found only blessed, unfeeling darkness in the sickness that finally consumed her. The fugue states were different than the times she had merely been knocked unconscious. If someone had taken the butt of a gun to her temple or given her a shot of something to make her fall asleep, the pain and the feelings were still there, blurred and muddled, as if she were looking at them through wax paper. While knocked unconscious, her mind could roam free. Nadia, Francie, and Danny would still be alive while unconscious. Her mother wouldn’t be a Rambaldi zealot and would still be happily married to her father, who actually worked at Jennings Aerospace.

But when the sickness took her over for the first time, it was complete and utter nothingness. Nadia, Francie, and Danny weren’t alive; they didn’t exist. Vaughn didn’t exist. The baby she had loved and lost didn’t exist. Sark and his soft lips and sure hands did not exist. Sydney didn’t exist. She was nothing. It was the sweet release of death with the steady beat of her heart never slowing, never stopping. Surely this was heaven, where feelings and sorrow could not touch her.

But if this were heaven, Sydney’s sluggish brain rationalized, why would my hands be moving?

For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, Sydney’s mind stirred. She didn’t like it. The emotional part of her longed for the unfeeling blackness that had moved into her mind so swiftly and so mercifully. But there it was again, the annoying, rational lobe pulsing again, causing electrons to fire across brain, making her wonder why her hands were moving, why her fingertips brushed thick stacks of paper, why voices seemingly appeared out of nowhere, and where her eyes seemed to be working for the first time.

No, she thought, willing the soothing blindness to return, but it was too late. Sydney’s innate workings to combat forces invading her mind pulled through and it as if someone had flicked on a light switch.

She wasn’t lying on the floor of a dirty, abandoned warehouse. Sark was no lying next to her in that ridiculous, spangled blue suit, reaching out to hold her hand. Cesar was not dying, the gunshot wound inflicted on him by Sark taking his life. Sloane was not lying on a gurney, his heart weakening and slowing with the toxin she had slipped into his drink.

Looking down at herself, Sydney saw she wasn’t wearing the gaudy, albeit gorgeous, white gown from the Goblin’s Masquerade Ball. She was wearing a blue gingham dress, white shirt, and red sparkly shoes. Reaching up, she felt that her hair was in pigtails. And clenched between her hands were thick, green wads of cash.

“Jesus, I’m Dorothy,” Sydney whispered disbelievingly.

“I’m the Tin Man, not Jesus,” said a man Sydney had not noticed standing right in front of her. Sure enough, he was the Tin Man, dressed in the robot-like suit with secret compartments that Sydney was stuffing with cash. Realizing what she was doing, Sydney stopped and stared incredulously at the man.

“Are you alright, Dorothy?” The Tin Man asked. It was a normal enough question but Sydney saw, now that she was properly looking at the man, that his question was a purely reactionary response to her halting her action. No recognition of what the phrase meant shone in his features. His voice was mechanical, his movements robotic, neither of which having to do with his current costume.

As disconcerting as the man’s tone and demeanor was, it was his eyes that gave Sydney pause. She’d seen that same, dead-behind-the-eyes look in Sark. There was a moment from the episode he’d had in the German medical facility when she had left his bedside for a quick shower and found him out of bed and leaving the house. She’s cornered him and he’d looked at her with the same dead eyes this man was currently staring at her with. No recognition, no understanding, nothing. Sark had woken up from the daze a few seconds later, but in those tense few moments, there was nothing left of Sark in that body. He had been an empty husk of a man being controlled by…what? Or who?

“No,” Sydney finally answered the Tin Man, a dark-skinned, handsome man with a faint southern accent. Her head was clearing. Questions filled her once hazy mind. “I am not alright. What is your name? What are we doing here? Do you know who the Messenger is? Do you work for Arvin Sloane?”

“She’s asking too many questions,” said a voice from across the room. Sydney’s head whirled to face the voice, feeling like she shouldn’t’ be surprised to see a man with a heavily pockmarked face dressed as the Cowardly Lion addressing her tonelessly. “Her training could be faulty. Leader said that could prove to be a problem.” He was soldering a small panel in the wall, but as he turned to face her, it was his glazed over eyes that gave him away. He had the sickness, too.

“Do not divert from the mission,” the Lion intoned, as if reading from a script. He motioned to a man sitting at a nearby computer, appropriately dressed as the Scarecrow. He was a skinny man with a large Adam’s apple and a pale face, his dead eyes bathed in a blue glow from the laptop.

“What’s the mission?” Sydney asked, hoping her straightforward question would be met with similarly straightforward response. She set the wads of cash on a nearby counter. The scar-faced Lion took in her work stoppage.

“Do not divert from the mission or I will be forced to assume your wiring is faulty,” he repeated, turning his eyes from the wall panel and fixing her with his deadened stare.

“Listen,” Sydney said steadily, trying not to raise any of their alarms. She looked each Oz character in their eyes in turn, hoping to connect with some bit of humanity still left inside of them. “My name is Sydney Bristow. I work…worked from the CIA. Do you know your names? Do you know your boss’s name?”

“She is diverting from the mission,” the scar-faced Lion deadpanned. “She is a defector. Scarecrow…terminate her.”

Lion turned back to his worked as the large-nosed Scarecrow stood from his computer and reached into a bag next to it. He pulled out a pistol and held it while he rummaged around in the bag some more.

“Listen to me,” Sydney said firmly, staring into the Scarecrow’s lifeless eyes. “You are a real person. You are more than just a body, just a mission. You have a name. You have a family. You can snap yourself out of this.”

The Scarecrow pulled a silencer out of his bag and began to screw it onto the gun.

“Someone out there is wondering where you are,” Sydney said with feeling, her hands raised above her head in surrender. “Someone out there loves you. They’re waiting for you to come home. Please, put down the gun.”

Sydney looked desperately around for a way out, or for something to use as a weapon. They were in a plain, nondescript office with a safe in the wall and the only furniture in the room was the chair and desk the Scarecrow’s had just vacated. The door sat closed behind the Lion’s large, fluffy form. She was trapped.

Sydney did the only thing she could think of. She slapped the Scarecrow.

“Look at me!” Sydney yelled at him, hoping to distract him long enough to bring him out of his stupor or take his gun away. She ignored the two other men that had temporarily halted their tasks. The Scarecrow stood motionless, staring at Sydney.

“There is someone who loves you out there. Someone is waiting for you to come home. Forget about what’s happening in this room. Think about what’s happening out there…without you.”

The Scarecrow didn’t move, but he didn’t shoot her either. Maybe it was the low light playing tricks on her, but she thought she was something flicker behind the man’s eyes. Sydney took advantage of it and quickly knocked the gun out of the Scarecrow’s hand, picking it up and waving it at the others to stay back. She turned back to the Scarecrow.

“Think,” she addressed him softly, still keeping an eye on the others. “Who is waiting for you? Who is wishing that you’d come home?”

The man’s large Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed deliberately. Sydney saw beads of sweat forming around his face, making his costume makeup bleed. His eyes were moving back and forth between reluctant Dorothy, the black Tin Man, and the pockmarked Cowardly Lion.

She slapped him again.

“Wake up!’ She yelled in his face. Life flooded back to the Scarecrow’s eyes.

“Sarah,” the man croaked, as if he hadn’t used his voice in a long time. His knees buckled and he fell to the ground. Sydney waved the gun at the others, motioning them to keep back.

“I’m Sydney,” Sydney said slowly, in case the man hadn’t heard her before. “Who are you?”

“No, Sarah,” the man repeated, looking desperate now. He looked around quickly at the others before settling on Sydney again. “I was driving my six year old to school and that’s the last thing I remember,” the man said, on the verge of tears. “Sarah, my precious Sarah. Jesus, what happened? What have I done?”

“Do not divert from the mission,” the scarred Lion said again, turning from his wall panel and taking a step closer to Sydney and Scarecrow.

“You. Stay the fuck back,” Sydney told the Lion, pointing the gun at him.

“What the hell is going on here?” The scarecrow asked, the reality of the situation fully dawning him. He tried to pull himself up but faltered, the strength leeching out of him. Sydney could see now that he was significantly weakened by the sickness, as Sark has been. Why hadn’t see been affected as badly?

“They are both defecting,” the Lion deadpanned. He turned to the Tin Man. “Terminate them.”

The Tin Man leapt for the gun, but Sydney quickly ducked and moved, sending the man flying with a sturdy kick to his shiny, metallic groin. She pointed the gun between the two men still under the veil of the sickness, hoping there was enough human left inside of them to realize she would shoot them if they came closer. She doubted they could fathom how close they were to death. She turned to the Scarecrow, who had turned his head and vomited spectacularly on to an expensive-looking oriental rug. He was looking decidedly worse for wear.

“Scarecrow and I are going to leave,” Sydney said steadily. She plucked a few bills from the wads of cash she had been pilfering and stuffed them into her bag which, of course, was black, furry, and dog-shaped.

“You two will continue as you see fit.” Sydney reached down and threw the Scarecrow’s arm over her shoulder to steady him. She briefly considered what she should do with the other two men. She could incapacitate them. Shoot them both in their kneecaps and call the police. But underneath she knew that they were probably just like her, just like Scarecrow, just like Sark, not knowing what they were doing. They could snap out of their fugue states and not know what they had done wrong and be sent away to prison, or even killed, for someone else’s crimes they had been forced to commit.

Sydney also considered trying to wake them up as she had done with Scarecrow. Unfortunately, she knew she didn’t have the time or strength to do this. One half-conscious person she could lug around, but three? Sydney knew impossibility when she saw one.

There was a third option. Probably the most humane, but Sydney couldn’t, wouldn’t, bring herself to do it. They would have killed her given the chance, she knew this. She could not justify in killing them. She would just have to hope they would one day wake up from the sickness…or perhaps it would be better if they never woke up at all.

“Sorry guys,” Sydney said, shooting them both in the shoulder. Both men reached up to quell the flow of blood but their expressions never changed. They’d be fine, they were only flesh wounds,Sydney rationalized to herself. It would slow them down and hopefully dissuade them from following the two of them or continuing their mission.

“Please,” the Scarecrow groaned, his eyelids fluttering. “I need to go…Sarah…”

“Ok, ok,” Sydney breathed, still pointing the gun at the two other men. Dorothy and the Scarecrow backed out of the room, leaving their compatriots of unknown intent behind them.

They climbed a set of stairs, the Scarecrow leaning heavily on Sydney the entire time. Soon, Sydney began to hear the mixed rumblings of music and laughter. Pushing through one last door, the two Oz characters stumbled into what appeared to be an office Halloween party. But Halloween isn’t for another couple of days, Sydney thought to herself. A sinking feeling trickled through Sydney as she peeked into a nearby cubicle and looked at the clock and calendar.

5:30 p.m. October 30th. The day before Halloween. She had lost four days. Four. Fucking. Days. She couldn’t believe it. Wouldn’t believe it. How was it possible to lose four days of your life and not remember?

It’s just as possible to lose four days as it is to lose two years, Sydney’s mind shot back at her. If there were forces out there with the ability to rob her of years of her life, why did it suddenly seem so impossible to lose days? And if she was here…wherever here was…where was Sark? Sydney suddenly felt the overwhelming void of his absence. She saw with her own eyes what the sickness could do…what it and he was now capable of. He could be anywhere, doing anything, and she had no way to contact him, to find him. No way to snap him out of his fugue state and he could be out there killing…or being killed.

“Looks like someone had a little too much Witch’s Brew Punch, if you ask me,” a man dressed as the back half of a horse said to Sydney, walking up to Sydney and conspiratorially jabbing her with his elbow. He squinted at the Scarecrow. “Is that Dave from accounting?”

“Actually, its one of the CEO’s,” Sydney whispered, thinking fast. “There’s 50 bucks in it for you if you call us a cab and keep quiet about all of this. Mr. Scarecrow here is a very prominent figurehead at our company and it would look very bad for everyone if this little incident got out.”

The man nodded his head vigorously, excited to be trusted with an important task. Within minutes a cab pulled up outside the office building and Sydney had greased the palm of the horse’s ass turned co-conspirator.

The Scarecrow had tried convincing Sydney and the taxi driver to take him to the nearest airport, which Sydney had been surprised to discover, was LAX. She overrode him, instructing the cabbie to take them to the hospital instead. During the ride, she found out his name was Miles Shapiro and he was an FBI agent for ten years before giving up the job for a quieter life as a school teacher in rural Montana. She told him all she knew about the sickness and how he’d grow weaker before he grew stronger.

“The hospital will take care of you,” Sydney assured, not exactly positive this was true. “They’ll help you find out what happened to your daughter. I’m sure she’s fine.” Both she and Miles knew this might not be true, but neither of them voiced this possibility. He was in and out of consciousness anyway and Sydney didn’t want to stress his system more than it already was.

Sydney told the cab to wait for her as she dropped Miles off at the emergency room. She didn’t give her name or wait around to give any specifics and made sure to keep her face averted from any of the hospital’s cameras. It was easier that way.

Back in the cab, she felt she finally had time to think. What she didn’t have was resources. She had only nabbed a few hundred bucks from the Tin Man, enough to rent a car or grab a flight back to Phoenix but certainly not enough to figure out a way to track Sark down. The cabbie said he and most other taxi’s would only go as far as San Diego, and that would cost as much as she had. The worst thing was that she didn’t have an I.D., making buying a flight or renting a car an impossibility. She could steal a car, yes, but at this point she didn’t know who or if anything was tracking her and there’d be no defense for her if she got caught before she made it to her house in Arizona.

Sydney asked the cab driver to stop at the Westside Pavilion Mall, where she picked up some civilian clothes and a trackphone. She tried calling Sark’s phone but as she predicted, an operator informed her that the number was no longer in service.

As she considered what the implication of this inability to contact Sark meant, another idea worked its way into her mind and wouldn’t be shaken loose. She knew it wouldn’t be the smartest thing she could do, and felt guilty even considering it, but right now, she felt it was her only possibility.

Sydney sat on a bench outside the food court for twenty minutes before she worked up the nerve to call the other person she had considered. She punched in the numbers that had lain long unused and dormant in her mind and waited for the one person who could help her to pick up.

* * *

Marshall Flinkman was just a half a bar away from leveling to 70 with his Blood Elf Paladin. He and his motley group of Horde players were running Karazhan and he was wondering, as his Paladin swung his claymore of unholy light at a vampiric concubine, how much trouble he could get in if anyone at APO he was playing World of Warcraft at work.

He was running a check on the new firewall that had been implemented this week and there was nothing to do other than wait for it to be finished, which would take another two hours, at least. He didn’t want Director Chase to think he was shirking his responsibilities but he had finished putting together the infrared scope in the shell of a Montblanc pen for Agent Dixon three hours ago and had no other work to do. Carrie had told him not to worry about dinner and to just pick something up for himself on his way home from work, so there was nothing left to do but wait. And why wait in silence when you could be killing vampiric concubines?

He liked Director Chase very much, much better than Sloane (even though that wasn’t saying much) and didn’t want to disappoint her, even though she hadn’t worn the perfume he and Carrie had given to her for her birthday this year. Not that he had gone around smelling her or anything. That would have been weird. Maybe she wore it at home or on special occasions. Maybe she didn’t like it at all even though she had said she had. Carrie had helped him pick it out (he told her it was for Mr. Heatherington’s wife’s birthday) and even though his beautiful wife had stressed that perfume might be too intimate a gift to give your boss’s wife Marshall had convinced her to help because Director Chase was a classy lady and classy ladies needed classy perfume…not that she didn’t smell classy as she was. Not that he was smelling her on a regular basis. Because, again, that would be weird.

The tank in Marshall’s group was leading them into the Opera House in Karazhan when he heard a buzzing. Puzzled, he pulled off his headset speaker, into which we was barking orders to his WoW group. He shook the headphones, thinking it had been malfunctioning, but there it was again, a muted buzzing noise, somewhere in his office. He quickly typed into the group chat window, “BRB, potty break,” and began shuffling through the frayed wires, crumpled papers, and shiny metal bits that littered his workspace.

There. Right between the necklace turned hypnosis-enabler and a tuxedo jacket that could be turned into an inflatable raft that could seat four was something that appeared to be a simple hiker’s boot. Like all of Marshall’s toys it did not simply do the most obvious, such as in this case, encase someone’s foot. It had been a communicator between himself and Sydney Bristow on a mission in the Black Forest in Germany but they had only used it that once.

Sydney. Marshall’s heart ached with sadness. Poor Sydney. She had been dealt so many hardships; it just wasn’t fair for someone so great. He missed her dreadfully still, even though it had been weeks since Nadia’s funeral and months since she’d worked at APO. She had been his first friend at SD-6 and for some time he thought he had been half in love with her. Looking back, he thinks it was because she was so beautiful and also so terribly nice and polite to him that he confused it with love. But even now, knowing what true love was, he still missed seeing her everyday. Work wasn’t the same without Sydney Bristow; the rooms and hallways seemed a bit darker without her there.

But here he was, more than a year later after that mission, and the boot Sydney Bristow had used buzzed at him, waiting to be answered. He held the shoe up to his ear and pressed the small logo on the side and the buzzing stopped.

“Uh…Marshall’s shoe phone, how can I help you?”

“Hi, Marshall.” Sydney’s voice was hesitant and unsure in Marshall’s ear.

“Sydney!” Marshall’s exclamation was exuberant at hearing his friend’s voice again. “Wow. Hi. I can’t believe you remembered the shoe phone number! I’m talking into a shoe, you know. Not that I mind because I’m talking to you but you remember we have actual phones here at APO, right? Uh…,” Marshall realized he was rambling. “To what pleasure do I owe this call to my footwear phone?”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Sydney said sincerely and Marshall grinned. Sydney paused. “I called the hiking boot phone because, well, I want as little people to know about what I’m doing as possible and you know how track all the phone calls at APO. I wish I could say I was simply calling to catch up, but…I need your help.”

Marshall stood up straighter, as if Sydney could somehow see his determination through his stance.

“I would do anything to help you, Syd. Just ask away.”

“Simple things first. I need papers. I.D., passport, you know, the works.”

“Sydney, that isn’t even challenging. Any preference on the name?”

“Nope. Go crazy.”

“Ok, Angelina Von Chestenmeier it is. What else can I help you with?”

“Well…,” Sydney’s voice stretched in Marshall’s ear. “What I need, I can’t really explain why I need it, but it might be difficult, especially since I don’t have much time to give you to do it.”

“You’ve been gone way too long, Syd. You’ve forgotten that I can do anything.”

“I need you to find Sloane,” Sydney’s voice then faltered, as if she couldn’t bring herself to say the words. “Also, if you could, I need you to find…I need you to find Sark,” she finished in a rush.

“Sark?” Marshall’s voice was puzzled. Finding Sloane, Marshall could understand. He didn’t want or need to know why Sydney wanted to find him. But Sark? Sark hadn’t been heard of in months, at least a half a year or more. The reasons for this absence varied according to the chatter on Echelon. Some believed he was simply dead, possibly gunned down in Galway. Some believed he was simply lying low, planning something unbearable huge and destructive somewhere in Minsk. And there was that one rumor; less believed than the others that he was terminally ill, suffering greatly until his inevitable end somewhere in the Greek Isles.

Marshall hoped none of these were true. He knew Sark was diabolical, a ruthless killer and spy. He was a very scary dude and yet…he was so cool. He wasn’t quite sure what made him so debonair…possibly the hair, definitely the clothes, of course it was his accent too, but…it was his attitude that made him one cool cucumber.

Marshall had eaten eggs with Sark not once but twice during the two years Sark was incarcerated in CIA custody. Marshall had been nervous at first but he had been so lonely since Sydney, Dixon and Jack went to APO and next to Weiss, Sark was the only person he still recognized at his job. Sark was a (sort of) friendly face in a job that he hardly even recognized anymore without his friends.

They had talked about all kinds of stuff: technology, news, books…women. Marshall had asked Sark what women want and he had given Marshall some very smooth moves that he still used to this day. Sark had asked Marshall what Sydney Bristow was really like. Initially, Marshall thought it had been a strange question but as he explained all the wonderful things about her, it didn’t surprise him. Everyone loved Sydney; even coldblooded, suave, international terrorists.

“You want to track down Sark?”

“Yes,” said Sydney, her voice sounding strained event to her own ears. “His cell phone isn’t connected anymore and I thought you could whip together some facial recognition software and run it through all the major cities.”

“All the major cities in the United States…?”

“In the world,” Sydney supplied sheepishly.

Marshall had already picked up a nearby pencil and was scribbling down formulas. Then he stopped.

“You have Sark’s cell phone number?”

“Uh…,” Sydney’s voice faded out as she gathered her thoughts. “Listen, Marshall, this is the point in time where I reiterate that no one else can know about what I’m asking you to do here. Let me just assure you that I’m not doing anything evil and Sark might be helping me and he could be a bit M.I.A. at the moment.”

“Oh really?” Marshall tried not to sound too interested. He walked over to his computer and minimized World of Warcraft, where his instance group were waiting for him, commenting on the probable severity of his bathroom exploits considering his AFK (away from keyboard) time. He pulled up his program writing files and starting tapping away at the keyboard with one hand.

“Do you…do you think you could give me his number? I mean, it’s been awhile since he and I have chatted and –“

“Marshall, it’s out of service. And since when do you and Sark ‘chat’?”

“Um…once or twice. About…stuff. There was just something he told me that I wanted to clarify since next week I’m dropping Mitchell off at my mother’s and Carrie and I are going on this romantic weekend…”

“Marshall,” Sydney interrupted, sounding like she was trying not to be impatient. “Can you do this for me? It would mean a lot to me, I’m in a bit of a situation here.”

Marshall smiled broadly even through Sydney couldn’t see it over the phone. “Of course I can do this for you. In fact, it’ll give me something to do until I can leave work. Where can you meet me?”

“Would the Westside Pavilion Mall be inconvenient?”

“No, no, no, not at all!” Marshall’s fingers were a blur as he typed in the program. “How about meeting me in the food court in two hours? I’ll be way hungry by then and I am jonesing for a gyro.”

Sydney laughed. To Marshall it sounded like the tinkling of tiny bells. “That would be perfect. Marshall…thank you. You don’t know how much this means to me.”

“Aw, Syd,” Marshall replied, blush creeping into his cheeks. “It’s the least I can do. Can’t wait to see you.”

“You, too. Bye Marshall.”

“Bye! See ya! Konichiwa! Auf Wiedersehen! Ciao!”

It was at that moment that Director Hayden Chase walked in and saw Marshall tapping away at the keyboard with one hand and talking into a woman’s hiking shoe with the other.

“Mr. Flinkman?” Director Chase arched a single eyebrow at him and Marshall quickly looked from her to the shoe and back again.

“Uh, you’re probably wondering why I’m talking into this shoe,” Marshall said quickly. “Well, it’s like this –“

“Nope,” Director Chase said, holding up her hand. “Not even going to ask, don’t want to know. Just checking to see how the firewall is going.”

“Another two hours, I think,” Marshall said, hoping his blush wasn’t as noticeable as it felt.

“Good,” Director Chase said, turning to leave. “Oh, and Mr. Flinkman?”

Marshall looked up from the computer.

“How’s your Blood Elf Paladin doing? At 70 yet?”

“Uh…almost,” Marshall squeaked out. He grinned guiltily.

“Well, congratulations then,” she said without irony. Marshall’s eyes widened and Director Chase grinned. But as quickly as the smile had appeared it disappeared and she was all business again. “Email me the results of the firewall check before you leave for the night. And if I don’t see you tomorrow…Happy Halloween, Marshall. Tell Carrie and Mitchell I said the same.”

“Will do,” Marshall said and she left. “Wow,” Marshall breathed, pulling up Sydney’s program again and rapidly typing in the configurations. He felt his cheeks burning and the grin that pulled against his mouth. If it was his lot in life to be surrounded by beautiful, powerful, and intelligent women then, by God, he was the luckiest man in the world.

* * *

It only took an hour and a half until Sydney spied Marshall determinedly making his way toward her table at the food court, a laptop and manila envelope in one hand and a gyro in the other. She smiled and waved and he grinned and waved his gyro back at her. He dropped the laptop and envelope on the table and enveloped the sitting Sydney into a tight bear hug.

“Ooof,” Sydney breathed as Marshall’s hug took the wind out of her. “Hiya Marshall.”

“It’s so good to see you, Syd,” Marshall said, sitting down across from her. “Oh, geez…I think I got tahini sauce on your shoulder. My bad.”

“It’s ok,” Sydney replied, smiling and wiping the white sauce off her shirt. It was reassuring to know that some things and some people didn’t change. He was the same old Marshall while she felt…broken. She hated doing this to him. “Tell me. How are Mitchell and Carrie? I wished I would have talked to her more at the funeral.”

“Oh no, please, we understand. Carrie misses you, too. Not as much as I miss you, of course, but you know.” Marshall grinned at her and Sydney couldn’t help but grin back. His grin softened before he spoke again. “How are you doing, Syd? We all miss you and want to help but…you’ve been gone for such a long time now.”

“I know,” Sydney said, feeling tears start to sting in her eyes. “It’s just…hard. And you are helping me…with this.” Sydney gestured to the laptop and the envelope. “If this does what I asked, you are helping me…more than you know.”

“Well, in addition to the I.D. stuff in the envelope, I am very proud to present you with a very sophisticated facial recognition program,” Marshall said, opening the laptop and pressing a few keys. “I must admit, I am very proud of this baby. In fact…I’ve already had a few hits already on our very slippery Mr. Sark.”

“You have?” Sydney asked hopefully. Marshall tore his gaze from the program and stared at Sydney.

“You’re not, like, after him, are you?” Marshall asked hesitantly. “He hasn’t wronged you and you’re going all ‘Kill Bill’ on his ass, right?”

“No, no, nothing like that,” Sydney assured him. “It’s…complicated. All I can say is that we’re…helping each other. I just need him,” she said, not thinking. Realizing how that may sound, she quickly clarified.

“I need to find him, I mean. That’s all.” She moved on. “What about Sloane? Any hits on him?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Marshall said resignedly. “But I programmed this to track both Sark and Sloane’s face using security cameras stationed throughout the world. It’s working off the APO satellite but don’t worry,” he supplied, seeing how Sydney’s face had changed to concern. “…no one will know but you and me. Our little secret.”

“Wow, this is impressive,” Sydney said, looking at Marshall’s program. “So, he’s been sighted in…Paris. Twice already.”

“If he’s caught on another camera, it will automatically update the program with the coordinates,” Marshall said, biting into his gyro.

“Marshall, this is great, I can’t thank you enough,” Sydney said, blessing Marshall with one of those patented Sydney Bristow grins that would blow any guy away. He blushed and tried to swallow the large bit of lamb still caught in his throat.

“Aw, I just wish I could do more,” he said, truly meaning it. She looked at him and he finally saw it: the sadness hiding there, just below the surface. Marshall hated whoever put that new sadness there, when she already had suffered so much. If it was Sloane, then…he hoped she killed him. Marshall hadn’t ever wished death on someone before but if it was Sloane behind this latest tragedy of Sydney’s then…Marshall would be glad he had helped her kill him in his own small way. It hurt to think that but it was true, so very, very true.

“As much as I’d love to stay and catch up,” Sydney said regretfully. “…time is of the essence. And I’m sure I’m keeping you from your family.”

“Mitchell does like it when I read to him before he goes to sleep,” Marshall says wistfully. “I’ve been reading him the Harry Potter series. I know he doesn’t understand it yet, but, I love Harry Potter and it gives me an excuse to read it without Carrie making fun of me.”

“Marshall,” Sydney started, and Marshall thought she might cry. She quickly put a smile on her face and Marshall smiled back even though he knew she was smiling simply to keep the tears at bay. She stood and picked up the laptop and envelope and he quickly followed suit. “Thank you. I miss you already.”

“I miss you, too, Syd. Take care of yourself.” He smiled a half-smile, knowing she wouldn’t be taking care of herself at all. He really wished she would. He wished she didn’t have to fight anyone ever again. But even Marshall Flinkman knew that the world was not that kind.

She waved at him and turned away and Marshall wondered when and if he’d see her again. He wished he would with all his heart. The world was not a kind place but surely it was not so cruel as to bring another blow against Sydney Bristow. He was sending positive thoughts her way as he finished his gyro and threw the wrapper away. He couldn’t wait to get back to his family.

* * *