Disclaimer: Alias belongs to JJ Abrams, ABC and the people at Bad Robot

Rating: R, for language and sexual themes in future chapters

Pairing: Sydney/Sark, suggested Sydney/Vaughn and Sark/Lauren

Summary: When Sydney makes the fatal mistake of trusting Sark with a gun in Man of His Word, Season 4, Sark takes the opportunity to revenge himself on Vaughn for Lauren's murder. However, after spending a prolonged time together, Sark and Sydney begin to develop feelings that neither of them anticipated.

Author's Note: Last one. Sorry it took a little longer than expected. Work has been kind of hectic, and the sixth Harry Potter book came out, so naturally life got put on hold while I read that. Also, I think a little bit of me was reluctant to end this fic. It was my first Alias, and I absolutely loved exploring the characters, particularly those of Nadia and Sark. I have a few ideas for new stories buzzing around in my head, and one of them is an extremely AU Sarkney, so keep your heads up for that possibility.

Thanks to every one who reviewed. I was so happy to bring a little Sarkney into your lives. Enjoy the last instalment of Sinful Revenge. Its quite a bit shorter than the other chapters, really more of an epilogue. But here goes…

Chapter: 14/14

Chapter 14- Of Chicken Noodle Soup

Brighton, England

"Everything seems to be in order 'ere, Mr. Lazaery," the real estate agent summed up, his Cockney accent somewhat difficult to understand. "The money will be transferred immediately to the indicated account. Best of luck to you and yours."

"Thank you," Sark tried a little smile, as he stood and took the man's offered hand. He barely managed to disguise the wince. Standing up was still a little painful, leading to the stretching of his newest flesh wound. He relinquished the deeds to the London estate to Mr. Rainey of Rainey and Clyde. He swung his light jacket over his shoulders and left without looking back.

The scent of sea salt and fish was most prominent over the seaside town of Brighton, England. It would not be a place he was sorry to leave. For one, he hated fish and for another, Brighton was stained with blood spilt by his hands. For the first time in his life, he had felt reluctance shedding blood. The two M16 agents had died immediately and hopefully painlessly, but that hadn't made any difference. There had been no other option, save surrendering and spending the rest of his life in British custody. Which was no option at all.

Normally such a large blow of cover would have sent him scrambling for a new hiding place, but he had become reckless these past two months. He adopted tortoise glasses that gave him a scholarly look and dyed his hair chestnut brown, but he was still very recognizable to those who knew what they were looking for. It didn't matter anymore. His plane left in five hours and he would be heading somewhere no one would ever find him.

This thought made him feel oddly hollow. It was only in the very darkest part of the night, when he was curled up in his cold bed, that he would admit that the hollow feeling had been present in one form or another since that fateful day in December. The sinister words 'hey, honey' haunted his dreams and a night wasn't complete if he didn't wake up in a cold sweat, images of Sydney gleefully pumping his skull full of lead.

The freezing wind, blowing up off of the sea, chilled his marrow. It was the first of March, and Sark was leaving England, for what he hoped would be the last time. Sark always hated the month of March- it was just a month of rain and winds. Only in April did spring start to appear, bringing a raise of spirits. But the British spy, or ex-spy, he corrected in his head, could not look to an April spring to raise his spirits. He was as miserable as he could ever remember being, and had been since the twelfth of December. His arms ached for a woman who was never coming back, and no optimistic bullshit of Antonio Manna's could save him from wallowing in misery. The Italian could sprout lines like 'be thankful you knew her at all' as much as he wanted, Sark never bought any of it.

Sark had never claimed to be unselfish or even grateful. He didn't want a memory of Sydney, he wanted all of her or nothing at all. And he knew he would never actually have her. Didn't deserve her, for that matter. But that knowledge didn't stop the constant ache. Part of his reasons for remaining in Brighton was the hope the CIA might send a team of agents after him, and perhaps she would be with the them, thirsting no doubt for his blood. In his one of his more sardonic fits, he had reasoned it would be worth dying just to see her one more time.

He unlocked the door of his BMW and slid in, firing up the engine. Was that what love was? This utter desperation that had become a part of him? He turned on to the highway, setting a vague course towards the nearest airport. He wondered if Sydney ever regretted leaving…if she ever paused to think what if? He grimaced angrily, hands clenching on the steering wheel until his knuckles were white. Of course she didn't. She was no doubt happy with Agent Boy Scout, planning their wedding and picking out houses with white picket fences. He couldn't stay angry with Sydney for that, however. He had only ever wanted to be able to give her the perfect life, and, except for a love with undying passion, Vaughn was more capable of giving her that perfect life.

In an attempt to distract his thoughts, he flicked on the radio. The sound of some haunting ballad sung by a woman with a beautiful, chilling voice flooded into the car. '…and I don't feel like I'm strong enough. Cause I'm broken, when I'm lonesome. And I don't feel right, when you're gone away.'

Sark angrily smashed the power button. What a stupid, ridiculous song. He only wondered why it was making his knuckles re-clench on the steering wheel so angrily. Hoping to leave his brain, or even better heart, behind, he slammed down on the gas pedal and tore off, every minute taking him closer to the escape he hoped he could make to some form of happiness.


Boxes. His life had become nothing but boxes. It was now March third and rather than being bogged down by the raging emotions associated with Sydney Bristow, he was being bogged down by boxes. Actually, to be corrected, about ten of the said boxes were now empty and broken down. But it was nothing to be proud of. Sark had spent a day and a half trying to make the house on the island of Samar in the Philippines feel more like home, yet he had failed miserably. Every half hour or so, he would grow frustrated and wander off, putting off even the most minor of tasks. Perhaps returning to the haven of his boyhood had not been the wisest of decisions.

He shook his head, clearing away any unproductive thoughts and reached for a box marked 'BOOKS.' He carefully sliced through the packing tape with an exacto-knife, and pushed the cardboard flaps down. Checking the contents to ensure the box was marked properly, he lugged it over to the room he was going to be using as his library. The book shelves were already set up, a kind gesture of the locals he had enlisted to help him in moving in.

He began unpacking novels, duly listing off the titles in his head. Crime and Punishment, The Lord of the Rings, Moby Dick, White Fang, Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone…

The last title brought him crashing into grim reality, and the volume fell from his hands, but he didn't notice. His mind was in a different time when the Italian version of this novel had sparked conversation between two enemies.

"What are you reading?" Sydney inquired, her voice jarring Sark from his careful translations. He could not pretend that it was not a pleasing interruption.

"Harry Potter," he drawled, glancing at her over the pages, trying to appear unimpressed with her need for conversation.

She rolled her eyes. "I was being serious."

"So was I," Sark said quickly. "I had a meet in a theatre once, but the man was compromised. Harry Potter was the film, so I stuck around to watch. It was actually quite decent. Antonio had a copy lying around, so I borrowed it."

Sydney, looking closer, satisfied her inquires. "I really don't know you at all," she sighed, leaning back in her seat.

"Few do," Sark admitted, laying the book in his lap. He leaned over and, with great personal risk, he thought, flicked a strand of her blonde hair. For one instant, he wished he could keep his hands tangled in that hair, even with its awful peroxide finish, forever.

Sark, in a fit of rage, grabbed up the book and flung it across the room. It banged into one of the walls and tumbled harmlessly to the ground, open to a page. With a heavy sigh, he trudged over to the offending paperback, and picked it up, glancing at the page it had opened up on to.

"But why couldn't Quirrell touch me?"

"Your mother died to save you. If there is one thing Voldemort cannot understand, it is love. He didn't realize that love as powerful as your mother's for you leaves its own mark. Not a scar, no visible sign…to have been loved so deeply, even though the person who has loved us is gone, will give us some protection forever."

Sark closed the book, his face thoughtful. He had been avoiding a certain place since arriving on Samar, but maybe the wizards in the children's book had a point. He opened a box marked 'OUTTER WEAR' and retrieved a black rain coat. Throwing up the hood, he stepped out into the rain.

It had been raining ever since he had arrived on Samar. The island was right in the middle of their Monsoon season. He ignored the pelting rain though, and maybe his way down to the narrow path that led down the grassy slope that was the back yard of the beach house to the beach itself. The sea rolled and churned, whites of waves spraying up. The water looked freezing cold, but Sark had to fight the urge to just walk out into it and let one of those waves come crashing down over his head.

Once he reached the beach, he made his way to a small grove of palm trees, a relatively short walk from their house. The palm trees offered a little shelter from the rain, but it was still a very wet day indeed. In the very middle of the trees there was a tomb stone, a little worse for wear. The grave site was very ill kept, possibly because no family had been there since the day Anastasia Lazaery was lowered into the ground.

Sark knelt in the wet grass in front of the tombstone. He didn't know exactly when the rain beating on his face started to mingle with his tears, but by then he was far beyond caring. He was completely alone in the world. There was no one going to come and cheer him up. His mother and father were dead, and he had alienated all friends, or more correctly, business partners. And the one woman he loved wanted to shoot him in the head, or at least put him in front of a firing squad. Try as he might, he couldn't see the light at the end of the dark tunnel he was travelling. He was beginning to question whether or not there was an end to this dark sorrow.

For how long he sobbed hoarsely into the wind and rain, he didn't know. His back was to his mother's stone and his hands covered his face. His clothes were soaked through and he was sure by morning he would be suffering from a serious cold, if not a full blown flu. And there would be no one to take care of him and feed him hot chicken noodle soup when all he wanted to do was laze around in bed.

That sobering thought brought him around to reality and he slowly got to his feet, brushing the clinging mud off of his clothes as best as he could. He gathered his wits about him and made his way back to the beach. His step was slightly lighter, and his mood, despite the torrent, could almost be described as brighter. He had not found any surprising happiness hidden in the grove, but an acceptance of his loneliness. Taking a calming breath, he reached the beach quickly and began hurrying towards the house.

His thoughts much less hectic, he was soon distracted by a visitor to his private beach. They were still too far away to make out any distinct features, including whether or not they were male or female. They were shrouded in a large grey coat, with the neck pulled up to fend off the wind. A floppy grey hat was resting on their head and they wore large boots. Through the heavy rain, they looked almost ghostly.

Sark wasn't feeling particularly friendly. A good part of him wanted to pull out a gun he had stopped carrying and shoot the intruder. But Sydney had made a lasting impact on the spy, though he was hardly aware of it. He changed direction and headed towards the figure in the rain. "Oy!" he hollered against the wind. "You can't be here! This is private property!"

"I know!" the figure shouted back. The voice was definitely female.

"Then get the hell off of my property!" Sark demanded, Sydney's influence not so great as to make him abstain altogether from rudeness or obscenities. "Bit stupid to take a walk in this weather anyways."

"Your property, did you say?" inquired the female. She pushed the brim of her floppy hat back, now only a few feet away from Sark. He got a glance of laughing brown eyes and locks of damp brown hair. "Exactly how many houses does one man need, Julian?"

A noise escaped Sark's throat, something between a laugh, and a sob and a shout of 'Sydney!' He ran towards her, and caught her up in his arms, burying his face in her neck. She laughed and wrapt her arms around his neck, kissing the top of his head. He lowered her and captured her mouth in a kiss more passionate than any they had shared before.

"I thought I'd lost you," he breathed against her lips. "I deserved to lose you. Love…darling girl…can you ever forgive me?"

"It's all forgotten," Sydney grinned, but he could see tears shining in her eyes. "I'm so sorry I left. I don't know why I thought I could go on without you. These past two months have been the most miserable of my entire life."

"That makes two of us," Sark admitted. He kissed her again, just because he could. But Sydney wasn't quite finished.

"And I'm so sorry I shot at you…not that you didn't deserve it…for some things," she added. "And I will do anything for you to take me back, despite the fact that I made such a huge mess of things. I mean…I'll dye my hair back to blonde…even that ridiculous peroxide colour, if you want. I know that's how you like your women."

This chain of babble was too much for Sark, and he silenced her with a kiss. "I like my women looking however you happen to look at that moment."

These whispered endearments served to silence Sydney, and her face lit up in a brilliant smile that healed any remaining sorrow in Sark. "C'mon," he coaxed, taking her hand. "I want to show you something."

"In this weather?" Sydney raised an eyebrow. "Are you mad? We've probably both already caught our deaths! It can wait, Julian."

Sark looked back at his mother's grove. He wanted to show Sydney immediately. She saw his torment. "We have forever," she reminded him quietly.

That promise soothed his indecision, and he joined hands with her. They headed in the direction of the house, walking rather quickly. As they drew up to the back screen door, Sark was overcome with a violent sneezing fit.

"Aw, baby," Sydney laughed. "Has he caught a cold?" Sark made a good show of pouting, and Sydney lightly swatted his arm. "Oh, lay off. Come inside and I'll make you some chicken noodle soup."

Sark allowed the American brunette to lead him inside, for the first time in two months feeling at home.


Taken from Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone by JK Rowling. Canadian Edition, pg. 216

The snippet of a song Sark listens to on the radio is 'Broken' by Seether, featuring Amy Lee.