TITLE: Materinstva
AUTHOR: Em Meredith
EMAIL: emily@healthyinterest.net
SPOILERS: Nothing in particular-- vague spoilers through Season 2.
SUMMARY: "The thing that surprised Sydney most about having a normal life was the quiet."
DISCLAIMER: I don't own these characters or their situations. I borrowed them from JJ Abrams, Touchstone, and ABC. They're used without intent to infringe, blah blah blah.
DISTRIBUTION: It lives at my site ().
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Many thanks to Macha, for holding my hand like she always does. Also thanks to kate for her help, and to Mush for being one of the Cool Kids.
DEDICATION: To Jo and Ryo, who have perfected writing fics from complimentary points of view.
Materinstva
by Em Meredith
The thing that surprised Sydney most about having a normal life was the quiet.
It wasn't that she'd never had quiet moments before-- she'd certainly had tranquil bubblebaths in her old apartment, or hushed conversations with Vaughn at the pier-- but it seemed like her life now was always *too* quiet. Even the loud voices of the men in the office where she worked didn't seem to break things up. Her new life was always muted -- never broken by gunshots or guards yelling "Stop where you are!"
She had expected there would be more noises. Indeed, the other people in her new, normal life had made her anticipate it. They'd given her a baby monitor at the perfunctory office baby shower so that she could hear the baby's slightest noise over the hum of the tv or the music on the stereo.
So she had the monitor sitting on a shelf in a room bathed in cheery yellows and greens, with a hastily assembled bugkiller wired into it. She carried the handset with her from room to room, as if she'd need it in the kitchen while she was cooking dinner. As if the slightest noise wouldn't send her rushing into the nursery.
Although, to be fair, she was listening for unfamiliar noises like the snapping of a twig outside the window more than for the familiar sound of her baby stirring from her nap.
She settled into this new life carefully, acting like the other women in the office and doing what was expected of her in her normal life. She went out for drinks with them often enough that they wouldn't think she was standoffish, but she certainly never confided her deepest, darkest secrets during late night conversations. Not that her coworkers would believe her deepest, darkest secrets-- or even the less sinister ones.
These normal women seemed to have no qualms about telling Sydney their business, though. They sympathized with her plight as a single mother, offering all sorts of helpful advice:
"I just don't know what I'm going to say when Katy asks me about her daddy. I just wanna tell her, 'Sweetie, your daddy was a jackass and he didn't even bother to stick around until you learned to walk. You'd best write him off now and not even bother with him.'"
The other women laugh sadly. Most of them have stories like this, stories about how their boyfriend left them for someone new or about how their husband works all the time and isn't ever home.
"What about you, Sarah? Are you gonna tell Jane the truth when she's old enough to ask?"
Sydney freezes, feeling their eyes on her.
"Luckily I don't have to worry about that for a while. She doesn't even have her first tooth yet, so I think I'm safe for a few months before she starts asking about her father," Sydney jokes.
This sets the women off into a discussion of how quickly the years go by and how she'll be heading into the Terrible Twos before Sydney knows it.
Later, she returns home smelling of smoke and tired from plastering the fake smile on her face. Sydney pays the babysitter and locks the doors up tight. She's an experienced enough mother that she doesn't lift the sleeping baby out of her crib and hold her tight, but she stands in the nursery for hours, looking down at her daughter. She wonders what she will say when Jane can ask questions.
She knows that she can't be honest, that the safe thing would be to tell her that her father was a deadbeat. She knows that she can't tell her daughter the things she wants to -- that her father had the same green eyes and dimples, that he loved hockey, that he used to bring her wine while she relaxed in the bathtub. Sydney can't tell Jane the truth -- that her father's not a deadbeat, but that her mother was too selfish to let her go to strangers. She berates herself for what may be the millionth time for sacrificing her daughter's safety in order to keep her close. As if the Glock in Sydney's nightstand is any substitute for the safety of total anonymity.
Looking down at her sleeping child, Sydney wonders at her own mother's strength. Irina Derevko may have been a liar and a spy, but she was selfless enough to leave Sydney behind. Sydney considers the trade-off every day, but then assures herself that no one can keep Jane as safe as she can. She can take no chances with strangers when her daughter is the child and grandchild of some of the most powerful spies on the planet.
As she finally tucks the edge of the blanket more snugly around Jane's tiny shoulder and leaves the room, it occurs to her that Irina trusted Jack Bristow to care for Sydney while she was gone.
Sydney didn't even trust Michael Vaughn enough to tell him that he had a daughter.
------------
It is three weeks later and once again Sydney's sitting with her colleagues from work at the local lounge, drinking the one margarita that she'll allow herself before driving home. They have these nights out to "get away from the kids" and yet that's all they seem to talk about. Sydney doesn't mind. Conversations about Jane are infinitely safer than conversations about Sydney herself. She loves to talk about Jane, and she's also less likely to slip up.
The staff accountant, Melissa, is pregnant with her third child and having trouble picking out a name. In the midst of discussing why they like names like "Brenna" and "Mackenzie," they realize that they're leaving their friend Sarah out, so they ask why she named her daughter "Jane."
"I just liked it."
"You didn't name her after someone?"
"No," she tells them. "I wanted a name that was simple so she wouldn't have to worry about people misspelling it."
"Tired of people spelling your name without the h?"
Sydney smiles. "Something like that."
The group goes back to discussing the merits of "Logan" and "Caleb" as name choices. The others voice their opinions about whether or not the expectant mother should even consider naming the child after his grandfather when the grandfather had the misfortune of being named "Horace."
Later that night Sydney broods over names. She thinks of all the names she considered: Michael, William, Francine, Jonathan, and even (for the briefest of minutes) Irina. But to give her daughter a name that could link her to her family would have been dangerous.
She's glad that the women hadn't asked about Jane's middle name, since it's her biggest tell. "Jane" may be a plain enough name, but "Akiva" will certainly garner attention. Call it superstition, but if Sydney couldn't give her daughter a family name, she wanted her to have a name that meant she was protected. Literally.
------------
It has been a year now since she left Sydney Bristow behind and became Sarah Lewis. It's just enough time for her to get comfortable. Just enough time for her to get careless.
It's four in the morning in the middle of July when she wakes at the sound of footsteps outside the house. She grabs the gun and steals into her daughter's room. She has just enough time to wonder how she's been made and why before the door creeps slowly open.
Jane cries out in fear at the crack of the gunshot, but Sydney's too busy fighting with the second thug to comfort her. A year of motherhood and normal life has changed her body, and her skills aren't what they once were. They're good enough, though, because after a few minutes of roundhouse kicks and blows to his head, he's on the floor as well. Seconds later Sydney's stuffing her Glock in the diaper bag and scrabbling for her purse as she and Jane run out the door. She snaps the carseat in place and peels out of the driveway, keeping her eyes out for some less traceable means of transportation.
As she pats Jane to quiet her and looks for a place to ditch her car, she thinks about Irina Derevko's choices.
------------
Materinstva is Russian for "Motherhood."
Feedback joyfully received at emily@healthyinterest.net.
Please visit Macha's site () for the companion piece, La Paternite.
AUTHOR: Em Meredith
EMAIL: emily@healthyinterest.net
SPOILERS: Nothing in particular-- vague spoilers through Season 2.
SUMMARY: "The thing that surprised Sydney most about having a normal life was the quiet."
DISCLAIMER: I don't own these characters or their situations. I borrowed them from JJ Abrams, Touchstone, and ABC. They're used without intent to infringe, blah blah blah.
DISTRIBUTION: It lives at my site ().
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Many thanks to Macha, for holding my hand like she always does. Also thanks to kate for her help, and to Mush for being one of the Cool Kids.
DEDICATION: To Jo and Ryo, who have perfected writing fics from complimentary points of view.
Materinstva
by Em Meredith
The thing that surprised Sydney most about having a normal life was the quiet.
It wasn't that she'd never had quiet moments before-- she'd certainly had tranquil bubblebaths in her old apartment, or hushed conversations with Vaughn at the pier-- but it seemed like her life now was always *too* quiet. Even the loud voices of the men in the office where she worked didn't seem to break things up. Her new life was always muted -- never broken by gunshots or guards yelling "Stop where you are!"
She had expected there would be more noises. Indeed, the other people in her new, normal life had made her anticipate it. They'd given her a baby monitor at the perfunctory office baby shower so that she could hear the baby's slightest noise over the hum of the tv or the music on the stereo.
So she had the monitor sitting on a shelf in a room bathed in cheery yellows and greens, with a hastily assembled bugkiller wired into it. She carried the handset with her from room to room, as if she'd need it in the kitchen while she was cooking dinner. As if the slightest noise wouldn't send her rushing into the nursery.
Although, to be fair, she was listening for unfamiliar noises like the snapping of a twig outside the window more than for the familiar sound of her baby stirring from her nap.
She settled into this new life carefully, acting like the other women in the office and doing what was expected of her in her normal life. She went out for drinks with them often enough that they wouldn't think she was standoffish, but she certainly never confided her deepest, darkest secrets during late night conversations. Not that her coworkers would believe her deepest, darkest secrets-- or even the less sinister ones.
These normal women seemed to have no qualms about telling Sydney their business, though. They sympathized with her plight as a single mother, offering all sorts of helpful advice:
"I just don't know what I'm going to say when Katy asks me about her daddy. I just wanna tell her, 'Sweetie, your daddy was a jackass and he didn't even bother to stick around until you learned to walk. You'd best write him off now and not even bother with him.'"
The other women laugh sadly. Most of them have stories like this, stories about how their boyfriend left them for someone new or about how their husband works all the time and isn't ever home.
"What about you, Sarah? Are you gonna tell Jane the truth when she's old enough to ask?"
Sydney freezes, feeling their eyes on her.
"Luckily I don't have to worry about that for a while. She doesn't even have her first tooth yet, so I think I'm safe for a few months before she starts asking about her father," Sydney jokes.
This sets the women off into a discussion of how quickly the years go by and how she'll be heading into the Terrible Twos before Sydney knows it.
Later, she returns home smelling of smoke and tired from plastering the fake smile on her face. Sydney pays the babysitter and locks the doors up tight. She's an experienced enough mother that she doesn't lift the sleeping baby out of her crib and hold her tight, but she stands in the nursery for hours, looking down at her daughter. She wonders what she will say when Jane can ask questions.
She knows that she can't be honest, that the safe thing would be to tell her that her father was a deadbeat. She knows that she can't tell her daughter the things she wants to -- that her father had the same green eyes and dimples, that he loved hockey, that he used to bring her wine while she relaxed in the bathtub. Sydney can't tell Jane the truth -- that her father's not a deadbeat, but that her mother was too selfish to let her go to strangers. She berates herself for what may be the millionth time for sacrificing her daughter's safety in order to keep her close. As if the Glock in Sydney's nightstand is any substitute for the safety of total anonymity.
Looking down at her sleeping child, Sydney wonders at her own mother's strength. Irina Derevko may have been a liar and a spy, but she was selfless enough to leave Sydney behind. Sydney considers the trade-off every day, but then assures herself that no one can keep Jane as safe as she can. She can take no chances with strangers when her daughter is the child and grandchild of some of the most powerful spies on the planet.
As she finally tucks the edge of the blanket more snugly around Jane's tiny shoulder and leaves the room, it occurs to her that Irina trusted Jack Bristow to care for Sydney while she was gone.
Sydney didn't even trust Michael Vaughn enough to tell him that he had a daughter.
------------
It is three weeks later and once again Sydney's sitting with her colleagues from work at the local lounge, drinking the one margarita that she'll allow herself before driving home. They have these nights out to "get away from the kids" and yet that's all they seem to talk about. Sydney doesn't mind. Conversations about Jane are infinitely safer than conversations about Sydney herself. She loves to talk about Jane, and she's also less likely to slip up.
The staff accountant, Melissa, is pregnant with her third child and having trouble picking out a name. In the midst of discussing why they like names like "Brenna" and "Mackenzie," they realize that they're leaving their friend Sarah out, so they ask why she named her daughter "Jane."
"I just liked it."
"You didn't name her after someone?"
"No," she tells them. "I wanted a name that was simple so she wouldn't have to worry about people misspelling it."
"Tired of people spelling your name without the h?"
Sydney smiles. "Something like that."
The group goes back to discussing the merits of "Logan" and "Caleb" as name choices. The others voice their opinions about whether or not the expectant mother should even consider naming the child after his grandfather when the grandfather had the misfortune of being named "Horace."
Later that night Sydney broods over names. She thinks of all the names she considered: Michael, William, Francine, Jonathan, and even (for the briefest of minutes) Irina. But to give her daughter a name that could link her to her family would have been dangerous.
She's glad that the women hadn't asked about Jane's middle name, since it's her biggest tell. "Jane" may be a plain enough name, but "Akiva" will certainly garner attention. Call it superstition, but if Sydney couldn't give her daughter a family name, she wanted her to have a name that meant she was protected. Literally.
------------
It has been a year now since she left Sydney Bristow behind and became Sarah Lewis. It's just enough time for her to get comfortable. Just enough time for her to get careless.
It's four in the morning in the middle of July when she wakes at the sound of footsteps outside the house. She grabs the gun and steals into her daughter's room. She has just enough time to wonder how she's been made and why before the door creeps slowly open.
Jane cries out in fear at the crack of the gunshot, but Sydney's too busy fighting with the second thug to comfort her. A year of motherhood and normal life has changed her body, and her skills aren't what they once were. They're good enough, though, because after a few minutes of roundhouse kicks and blows to his head, he's on the floor as well. Seconds later Sydney's stuffing her Glock in the diaper bag and scrabbling for her purse as she and Jane run out the door. She snaps the carseat in place and peels out of the driveway, keeping her eyes out for some less traceable means of transportation.
As she pats Jane to quiet her and looks for a place to ditch her car, she thinks about Irina Derevko's choices.
------------
Materinstva is Russian for "Motherhood."
Feedback joyfully received at emily@healthyinterest.net.
Please visit Macha's site () for the companion piece, La Paternite.