- Title: On the Brink
- Summary: Right and wrong are often alike. Jack watches S/V at the pier. (TBT/ABH). Revised one-shot version.
- Disclaimer: Not mine. Some quotes are directly from various episodes. No infringement is intended.
Author's Note: This was originally divided into four very short parts and posted in 2003. I always thought it read better as a one-shot. Text has been revised to flow smoother as thus, and a new chapter has been added to the middle.
ON THE BRINK
Part One: Jack
It is a strange thing, he decides, to both loathe and love tonight's events.
Dad... could we have dinner? How about Thursday, do you have plans?
No. Thursday. Dinner. That'll be fine.
It had seemed so innocent. So easy. After all his mistakes, all his missed opportunities, all of his failed attempts to force himself to find common ground with his daughter, it had been her to make the first move. His little girl had offered him the chance to right his wrongs.
It was ridiculous. Incomprehensible. Infuriating. Wrong.
What was wrong with Sydney Bristow? Why would she not let him go? Why was she suddenly trying to force him to be the father he had never been?
He hated that. Hated that she loved him without caution or condition. Didn't she know what he had done? All the people he had terrorized? Beaten? Executed? They had been innocent, many of them, but he had followed his orders. To the letter. Which is why he sat in his car and watched his daughter fall apart, while much more deserving people lived on only in memory.
He had watched her. Watched as she arrived, her step full of giddy, naive anticipation. Had watched as her simple joy at the chance to share an evening with him gradually turned into weariness. Weariness from experience in his broken promises, weariness that came from having a father who couldn't bring himself to be the man she wanted him to be.
For her own protection.
And so he had watched, while she checked her menu, her watch, the door, looking in vain for her father, who had promised to come. Their relationship was complicated, yes, but she was slowly learning what he kept guarded, learning that he was not unfeeling. His attempt to help Danny had created a door for the estranged father and daughter, a door both were starting to see after years of building a wall.
It was strange, he decided, because he did indeed love her, but he refused to allow himself to love her. Loving someone made him weak. Vulnerable. Susceptible. Blind.
Loving Sydney would open him up again, in ways he had not been since Laura's betrayal and subsequent death. He would not allow himself that openness again. No matter who it was. Who she was. The moment he did so, he lost all semblance of control. He lost all ability to look after his daughter with the ruthlessness that his life required.
I'm protecting Sydney, he thought resolutely. By allowing myself to love her, as I should, as she deserves, I become distracted. The instant I do that, we'll both be discovered.
His reasoning was plausible, he knew. Very plausible. Which, incidentally, made it wrong.
Which made it right, in his life of kill-or-be-killed. He pulls out his cell phone resolutely.
"Sydney. Sorry to call so late."
"No, it's all right." Her relief is obvious, as is the sudden wariness as she wonders why he reneged on his promise. This will not be the first time he stood her up, of course, but it is the first time either can remember that both agreed for tonight to happen.
He closes his eyes, hearing the little girl she once was in her tone. Daddy, just tell me everything is okay. Make everything okay.
But he can't. Because of his fear. And his love. "Uh, look, uh, I won't be able to make dinner. Work is, uh, just, um, I can't get away. You understand."
"Of course. Don't worry about it."And with that, another tone enters her voice. Grief. Hatred of himself and relief at his actions flow through him equally.
"I'll just see you at... I'll just see you."
"Okay. Bye."
He took a deep breath, his eyes hardening. It was done.
She takes a deep breath, fighting to control her astonishment and her tears at her sudden return to a reality she knows well. At his transparency. At his lie.
No Sydney, don't cry. It's better this way.
And then she reaches for her phone, which had served so recently as an instrument in his betrayal, moving so fluidly that it is almost as though her body was simply waiting for her mind to catch up with her actions. He frowns, confused. Is she calling him? He won't answer it, he decides. He can say he was at a meeting, or that Sloane had walked in, so of course, answering was out of the question.
She leans back in her chair, clearly listening to a phone ring.
His phone, however, remains silent.
Who is she calling? He doesn't know whether to be relieved that he is not again involved, or angered that he is not again involved. Tippin, perhaps? Francie?
Interlude: The Call
"Hello?"
"Vaughn?"
"Yeah… who's this?"
"Vaughn, it's Sydney, Sydney Bristow… I… can I see you?"
"Is everything all right? Is Sloane…"
"This isn't about work, I… you know what? Forget it. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have called."
"Wait, no. I'll be right there. You know the pier?"
"Yeah."
"I'll be there in 10 minutes."
"Thank you, Vaughn."
Part Two: Vaughn
He hangs up the phone before he can hear her reply. Stares at it. This is wrong, he knows. Risky. Foolish. Brash. Obvious. Careless.
But she needed him. Of that he has no doubt. And what kind of handler would he be if he ignored his agent?
The agent. Not his. The. An asset, a useful tool, a possibility for the end of SD-6. Nothing more, nothing less. He sighs staring at the empty spot off his nightstand. Alice removed the photo of them when she left.
I'm always second, Michael! How can anyone live like that?
Alice, come on. You know I was looking forward to this. But work –
Oh, yes. Work. What, the Bureau of Arms Control just desperately needed a midlevel analyst to drop everything and come in at all hours of the day? It's constant, Michael. You think I don't actually know what's going on?
What are you talking about?
What's her name, Michael?
Okay, now you're just being ridiculous.
It's like I don't know you at all. Maybe I never did.
Hours later, he can still hear the door slam.
Why did you ask me if I had a fight with my girlfriend?
I don't know. Did you?
He jumps. For a moment, she was behind him, speaking directly into his ear.
Huge.
He glances again at the nightstand, this time at the clock. If he leaves now, he'll probably beat her there.
What's her name, Michael?
He stands, grabbing his gun and his keys and spinning toward the door in one smooth motion. This is wrong, he knows.
But does that make it right, in their lives of kill-or-be-killed?
Addendum: Truth Be Told
She heads for her car. Careful to maintain his distance, he shadows her. Who could she possibly be meeting at this time of night?
Vaughn, Michael C. he thinks suddenly. Duly assigned CIA handler to SD-6 Double Agent Sydney A. Bristow. Could she be meeting him?
Hardly. She was doubtlessly meeting Tippin or Francie. Why would her handler cross the line? His orders dictated to the boy the danger of each and every meeting. A meeting so obviously personal in nature should not even be approached as a possibility, and Vaughn was supposedly a professional.
He sighs, lost in thought as he tails his daughter. Upon learning that Sydney had willingly chosen the hell he called his life, he had immediately sought to make it as easy as possible for her. First on the agenda had been working with Devlin, while she was writing her debrief, to find a handler worthy of her, someone that could reign her in but would also give all her suggestions the weight they deserved.
We have someone that would be perfect for Agent Bristow's handler, Jack.
Who?
His name is Michael Vaughn. Analyst, but has some field training. Currently ranked as an Operations Officer. His record is flawless and he's considered to be one of the brightest rising stars in the agency, both literally and metaphorically. Brilliant in strategy, proficient in weaponry and combat, tremendous wealth of knowledge in everything from international relations to economics to history, fluent in several different languages…
How many years does he have in the agency? Twenty? Thirty? I'd prefer thirty. And how old is he? 40? 50? Someone seasoned, I'm assuming.
Seven years, recruited in '94. He's 33, but-
No. Absolutely not.
I mean it, Jack. He's young, yes, but no one is better suited.
I don't care. My daughter needs the best, not a child just as inexperienced as she is.
She's getting the best, Jack. Would you like to meet him?
Why would I want to meet a dead man? That's what he'll be, what both of them will be. Sydney needs someone seasoned, someone as qualified as she is. This is ridiculous.
I'm sorry, but I disagree. Jack, you'll thank me for this someday.
No. I won't.
Part Three: Jack
She's arrived. He watches as she slowly steps out of the car with none of her usual grace, her movements sluggish, her shoulders shaking. Twenty feet in front of her, hidden in the darkness, a man stands waiting. Vaughn. The child, the one whom he had relentlessly argued against being assigned to his daughter. The one who should have adamantly refused to allow this meeting to happen, but did not.
The one his daughter immediately turned to when her father turned against her.
This is wrong, he knows. Dangerous. Foolish. Brash. Obvious. Careless.
But does that make it right, in her life of kill-or-be-killed?
He watches, grimly, as she finally gives in and allows all of her pain to spill out, while her handler stands and comforts her. It should be him listening to her cry and offering soothing reassurances. It should be him with all the right words to say, the empathetic glances, the firm and understanding presence.
But it can't be. Because he caused the pain. And would cause it again, if it saved her life.
Does that make me a good father? he wonders. Or a bad one?
On the pier, his daughter and her handler are finishing. He relaxes, reminding himself to introduce himself to the child assigned to his daughter and make his feelings towards his conduct very clear, very soon.
And then he jerks upright, shock overwhelming his senses. They aren't concluding the meeting.
In front of the world, in front of all who could be watching, Sydney Bristow and Michael Vaughn admire the stars, their gentle hand-holding far more obvious than any shouting would be.
It's wrong. Careless. Foolish. Brash. Dangerous. Immature. Obvious.
But does that make it right, in their lives of kill-or-be-killed?
THE END
