"You made my bed," I say, hearing the startled tone of my voice. She looks at me, confusion written all across her features.
"Yeah, I did." She says, still sounding entirely confused. "Is that okay?"
"When did you do it?" I ask, still unnerved by the whole situation. I don't like being thrown off guard. Always be prepared for the unexpected, however, this was just a little too unexpected.
"While you were in the shower," she replies, still staring at me like I hit my head too hard on something.
"Oh," I'm still staring at the bed. The sheets aren't visible, obviously having been tucked in, the comforter spread neatly over the bed, the pillows neat place on top.
"Are you okay?" she asks, concern creeping in on top of the confusion.
"I'm fine," I reply, "Why did you make the bed?"
"Well," she says, a smile beginning to creep across her lips, "you were taking so long in the shower after I had made myself breakfast, started a pot of coffee and gotten dressed I decided I would be nice and save you the trouble."
"It's no trouble," I say, still transfixed by the bed.
"Did I do something wrong?" she asks, exasperation replacing the confusion.
"No," I say quickly, "it's just...not how I do it."
"It's now how you do it?" she asks slowly, pausing slightly after each word, obviously thinking I'm insane.
"Well," I say, not wanting to seem stranger than I already must, "I just do it a certain way."
"You have a certain way of making your bed?" she asks, obviously amused by my reaction.
"Yes," I say, slightly offended by her reaction. "I get up, take my shower, which is not that long, get dressed, make my bed, put on my shoes, make eggs benedict, drink a cup of coffee and go into my office and take care of business."
"Every morning?" she asks, raising one of her eyebrows.
"Yes," I reply, becoming annoyed.
"Don't you ever get sick of eggs benedict?" she asks, obviously making fun of me.
I groan, audibly, wondering why I even bother at this point. "No, I don't, it's my favourite food."
"Well," she says, "I really like coffee ice cream but I still get sick of it and crave rocky road occasionally. Don't you ever want to eat a fried egg?"
"Sydney," I say, exasperated from our conversation, "do you enjoy antagonizing me?"
With that she loses control and practically doubles over from the intensity of her laughter.
"You are far too sensitive," she says, smiling now.
I begin to protest but before I have a chance to get the first word out she reaches across and pulls all of the bedding off of my bed.
"There, now you can continue to follow routine," she says, still smiling at me.
"You just wanted to make a mess," I say accusingly.
"I promise that wasn't my intention," she says, putting on a solemn face. "I just don't want to upset your routine any further than necessary."
With that she turns to exit the room, practically skipping out of the door.
"Where are you going now?" I ask, feeling a sense of dread at her merriment.
"To make you some fried eggs and bacon," she replies, the mirth evident in her voice.
"I thought you didn't want to mess up my routine," I call out to her, trying to stop her from getting me more out of synch.
"Did I say that?" she calls back, the fake sugary innocence embellishing her voice.
I sigh inwardly as I hear my pots and pan rattling around, thinking of my organized cabinets going to waste. I give up the fight; sometimes it's best just to concede defeat where Sydney Bristow is concerned.
I turn to my bed, looking at the sheets in disarray, the pillows and comforter splayed around the floor of my room. Groaning I begin to make the bed 'my' way. Just as I was straightening the comforter so it was perfectly even on each side I hear a high-pitched sound, obviously from Sydney, followed quickly by the sound of glass breaking.
I rush into the kitchen, and there she is, standing in the middle of the kitchen, millions of tiny pieces of glass scattered all over, something thick and sticky looking covering her feet and trailing up her legs.
"Oh, Julian, darling," she says looking at me with a face the picture of innocence and remorse, "I accidentally dropped the honey jar."
I run a hand through my hair feeling like I'm at the end of my rope. "There's a reason I have the routine, Sydney, it's so things like this don't happen. If you had stuck to the routine everything would be fine."
"Julian," she says, sounding even more exasperated than ever, and purposefully using my first name, she knows it bothers me, "it's just a little honey."
"And five billion pieces of glass," I say, "that I'll never get rid of completely. And three years from now I'll be walking innocently through my kitchen to get a drink and I'll step on one."
"You're really anal-retentive," she says, probably wondering why this had never made itself obvious before. She begins to tiptoe over to the side of the kitchen opposite of me.
"Sydney," I say, growing wary, "What are you doing? You're going to get glass in your feet."
"Sark," she says in that same tone she uses when I'm being bothersome, "do you want me to list the number of injuries I've had that would make a piece of glass in my foot feel like puppies licking me?"
"Well pardon me for being concerned," I say as she continues her tedious trek across the tiled floor. "But, in all honesty, what are you doing?"
"I'm getting off the floor," she says as she hops onto the counter, letting her honey-covered feet and legs rest against the cabinets. All I can do is stare as it trails down the painted wood. "Now you can clean it so I don't get any glass in my feet," she explains matter of factly.
"You expect me to clean this up?" I ask, stunned.
"I don't have any shoes on," she says as if this explains everything.
"You've already made it quite clear that you're not concerned about the glass," I fire back at her.
"I'm not worried about it, but now that I've managed to safely make my way out of it I don't think I should tempt fate and trail back in," she says, "the only solution is for you to clean it up."
I sigh, knowing that she's going to have a response to any reply I come at her with. Besides, I wouldn't make her clean it up anyway, there really is no sense in her risking injury.
I reach for my dustpan and begin to sweep the sticky glass into the pan, paying pain-staking attention to getting every piece. Out of the corner of my eye I suddenly see her feet disappear, looking up I see her crawling on all fours across my kitchen cabinets.
"What the hell are you doing?" I practically shout, watching her feet slap the honey all over my pristine white marble cabinets.
"Washing my feet off," she replies, flipping so she's sitting again and flinging her feet over into the sink, turning on the water.
I groan inwardly again, watching the water pool around the rim of the sink. "Are you always so messy?"
"I'm not messy," she replies, sounding slightly offended, "I'm just not obsessively clean. I'm normal."
I mumble to myself, wondering how I got into this situation in the first place, it's so bizarrely surreal.
"What was that darling?" she asks, the saccharine tone creeping back into her voice.
"Nothing, sweetie-pie," I reply, the sarcasm evident over the false sweetness.
I finish scrubbing the last off the honey off the floor, and stand up to see my pants completely ruined by the combination of honey and Mr. Clean. I wordlessly turn and make my way back into the bedroom to change my clothes. I hear her wet feet plodding along behind me. They stop in the doorway of the bedroom.
"How is that any different from the way I made the bed?" she asks, sounding offended.
"You had the pillows in the wrong order," I explain. Which she did, they were completely messed up.
She just stares blankly at me, still not fully understanding, then she does something entirely unexpected and pushes me down onto the bed.
"I just finished making it!" I protest, but she smothers any further complaining with a kiss.
I startle awake, looking around the dark room, quickly surveying for anything out of the ordinary before resting my eyes on the woman beside me. She's lightly snoring, her chest rising and falling peacefully, one hand thrust under the pillow, the other resting on her abdomen. She doesn't sleep this peacefully anymore, always awaking sweaty and on the verge of tears, never wanting to explain why she's in this state. But I know, I know whom she dreams of, who she sees dying over and over again. She has nothing left in this world, other than this right here, this bed, this house, this life...me.
I see a small smile flicker across her lips, it's both wonderful and horrible to see her this peaceful. Wonderful because it rarely happens, I can't remember the last time I saw her smile, saw her eyes light up. Horrible because I know she'll awaken in a few hours and be the Sydney she is today, broken, torn, hopeless.
I see her eyelids flickering, dreading her having another one of the nightmares. But she peacefully opens her eyes and looks up at me.
"What time is it?" she asks, her voice scratchy and thick from sleeping.
I glance over at the clock behind me. "4 A.M.," I say, "You should get some more sleep." I worry about her, she may not be the same Sydney Bristow she once was, but she's my Sydney now, I'm the one that cradles her when she awakens in the middle of night, wiping the sweat off of her forehead, lulling her back into her restless sleep.
"I'm not tired," she replies, though I can hear the exhaustion in her voice.
"Okay," I say, watching her, "I'm going to go get my shower." I lean over and kiss her forehead before crawling out of bed and wandering into my bathroom.
I scrub clean, feeling the near scalding water trail a burning path down my back. I lean against the wall, thinking of how screwed up everything has become. Everyone's lives are in shambles. I have no affiliation with an organization anymore. After The Covenant was taken care of I had no taste left for the life of working for others.
Sydney fared far worse. Vaughn was severely punished after it was found out that he had tortured Lauren, the CIA has no taste for torture, even of an enemy and Sydney could never look at him the same way again. Jack was killed on a mission three years ago, after that, combined with everything else she had been put through she just shut down. She came to me one night looking for comfort, she knew no one else. I was a last resort, the last place that felt even the slightest bit familiar.
I reached down to shut off the water, wrapping a towel around my waist before heading back into the bedroom. I see her pulling a shirt over her head. Everything she does these days looks difficult, like she has no energy left in her. And then I see the bed.
She made my bed.
"Yeah, I did." She says, still sounding entirely confused. "Is that okay?"
"When did you do it?" I ask, still unnerved by the whole situation. I don't like being thrown off guard. Always be prepared for the unexpected, however, this was just a little too unexpected.
"While you were in the shower," she replies, still staring at me like I hit my head too hard on something.
"Oh," I'm still staring at the bed. The sheets aren't visible, obviously having been tucked in, the comforter spread neatly over the bed, the pillows neat place on top.
"Are you okay?" she asks, concern creeping in on top of the confusion.
"I'm fine," I reply, "Why did you make the bed?"
"Well," she says, a smile beginning to creep across her lips, "you were taking so long in the shower after I had made myself breakfast, started a pot of coffee and gotten dressed I decided I would be nice and save you the trouble."
"It's no trouble," I say, still transfixed by the bed.
"Did I do something wrong?" she asks, exasperation replacing the confusion.
"No," I say quickly, "it's just...not how I do it."
"It's now how you do it?" she asks slowly, pausing slightly after each word, obviously thinking I'm insane.
"Well," I say, not wanting to seem stranger than I already must, "I just do it a certain way."
"You have a certain way of making your bed?" she asks, obviously amused by my reaction.
"Yes," I say, slightly offended by her reaction. "I get up, take my shower, which is not that long, get dressed, make my bed, put on my shoes, make eggs benedict, drink a cup of coffee and go into my office and take care of business."
"Every morning?" she asks, raising one of her eyebrows.
"Yes," I reply, becoming annoyed.
"Don't you ever get sick of eggs benedict?" she asks, obviously making fun of me.
I groan, audibly, wondering why I even bother at this point. "No, I don't, it's my favourite food."
"Well," she says, "I really like coffee ice cream but I still get sick of it and crave rocky road occasionally. Don't you ever want to eat a fried egg?"
"Sydney," I say, exasperated from our conversation, "do you enjoy antagonizing me?"
With that she loses control and practically doubles over from the intensity of her laughter.
"You are far too sensitive," she says, smiling now.
I begin to protest but before I have a chance to get the first word out she reaches across and pulls all of the bedding off of my bed.
"There, now you can continue to follow routine," she says, still smiling at me.
"You just wanted to make a mess," I say accusingly.
"I promise that wasn't my intention," she says, putting on a solemn face. "I just don't want to upset your routine any further than necessary."
With that she turns to exit the room, practically skipping out of the door.
"Where are you going now?" I ask, feeling a sense of dread at her merriment.
"To make you some fried eggs and bacon," she replies, the mirth evident in her voice.
"I thought you didn't want to mess up my routine," I call out to her, trying to stop her from getting me more out of synch.
"Did I say that?" she calls back, the fake sugary innocence embellishing her voice.
I sigh inwardly as I hear my pots and pan rattling around, thinking of my organized cabinets going to waste. I give up the fight; sometimes it's best just to concede defeat where Sydney Bristow is concerned.
I turn to my bed, looking at the sheets in disarray, the pillows and comforter splayed around the floor of my room. Groaning I begin to make the bed 'my' way. Just as I was straightening the comforter so it was perfectly even on each side I hear a high-pitched sound, obviously from Sydney, followed quickly by the sound of glass breaking.
I rush into the kitchen, and there she is, standing in the middle of the kitchen, millions of tiny pieces of glass scattered all over, something thick and sticky looking covering her feet and trailing up her legs.
"Oh, Julian, darling," she says looking at me with a face the picture of innocence and remorse, "I accidentally dropped the honey jar."
I run a hand through my hair feeling like I'm at the end of my rope. "There's a reason I have the routine, Sydney, it's so things like this don't happen. If you had stuck to the routine everything would be fine."
"Julian," she says, sounding even more exasperated than ever, and purposefully using my first name, she knows it bothers me, "it's just a little honey."
"And five billion pieces of glass," I say, "that I'll never get rid of completely. And three years from now I'll be walking innocently through my kitchen to get a drink and I'll step on one."
"You're really anal-retentive," she says, probably wondering why this had never made itself obvious before. She begins to tiptoe over to the side of the kitchen opposite of me.
"Sydney," I say, growing wary, "What are you doing? You're going to get glass in your feet."
"Sark," she says in that same tone she uses when I'm being bothersome, "do you want me to list the number of injuries I've had that would make a piece of glass in my foot feel like puppies licking me?"
"Well pardon me for being concerned," I say as she continues her tedious trek across the tiled floor. "But, in all honesty, what are you doing?"
"I'm getting off the floor," she says as she hops onto the counter, letting her honey-covered feet and legs rest against the cabinets. All I can do is stare as it trails down the painted wood. "Now you can clean it so I don't get any glass in my feet," she explains matter of factly.
"You expect me to clean this up?" I ask, stunned.
"I don't have any shoes on," she says as if this explains everything.
"You've already made it quite clear that you're not concerned about the glass," I fire back at her.
"I'm not worried about it, but now that I've managed to safely make my way out of it I don't think I should tempt fate and trail back in," she says, "the only solution is for you to clean it up."
I sigh, knowing that she's going to have a response to any reply I come at her with. Besides, I wouldn't make her clean it up anyway, there really is no sense in her risking injury.
I reach for my dustpan and begin to sweep the sticky glass into the pan, paying pain-staking attention to getting every piece. Out of the corner of my eye I suddenly see her feet disappear, looking up I see her crawling on all fours across my kitchen cabinets.
"What the hell are you doing?" I practically shout, watching her feet slap the honey all over my pristine white marble cabinets.
"Washing my feet off," she replies, flipping so she's sitting again and flinging her feet over into the sink, turning on the water.
I groan inwardly again, watching the water pool around the rim of the sink. "Are you always so messy?"
"I'm not messy," she replies, sounding slightly offended, "I'm just not obsessively clean. I'm normal."
I mumble to myself, wondering how I got into this situation in the first place, it's so bizarrely surreal.
"What was that darling?" she asks, the saccharine tone creeping back into her voice.
"Nothing, sweetie-pie," I reply, the sarcasm evident over the false sweetness.
I finish scrubbing the last off the honey off the floor, and stand up to see my pants completely ruined by the combination of honey and Mr. Clean. I wordlessly turn and make my way back into the bedroom to change my clothes. I hear her wet feet plodding along behind me. They stop in the doorway of the bedroom.
"How is that any different from the way I made the bed?" she asks, sounding offended.
"You had the pillows in the wrong order," I explain. Which she did, they were completely messed up.
She just stares blankly at me, still not fully understanding, then she does something entirely unexpected and pushes me down onto the bed.
"I just finished making it!" I protest, but she smothers any further complaining with a kiss.
I startle awake, looking around the dark room, quickly surveying for anything out of the ordinary before resting my eyes on the woman beside me. She's lightly snoring, her chest rising and falling peacefully, one hand thrust under the pillow, the other resting on her abdomen. She doesn't sleep this peacefully anymore, always awaking sweaty and on the verge of tears, never wanting to explain why she's in this state. But I know, I know whom she dreams of, who she sees dying over and over again. She has nothing left in this world, other than this right here, this bed, this house, this life...me.
I see a small smile flicker across her lips, it's both wonderful and horrible to see her this peaceful. Wonderful because it rarely happens, I can't remember the last time I saw her smile, saw her eyes light up. Horrible because I know she'll awaken in a few hours and be the Sydney she is today, broken, torn, hopeless.
I see her eyelids flickering, dreading her having another one of the nightmares. But she peacefully opens her eyes and looks up at me.
"What time is it?" she asks, her voice scratchy and thick from sleeping.
I glance over at the clock behind me. "4 A.M.," I say, "You should get some more sleep." I worry about her, she may not be the same Sydney Bristow she once was, but she's my Sydney now, I'm the one that cradles her when she awakens in the middle of night, wiping the sweat off of her forehead, lulling her back into her restless sleep.
"I'm not tired," she replies, though I can hear the exhaustion in her voice.
"Okay," I say, watching her, "I'm going to go get my shower." I lean over and kiss her forehead before crawling out of bed and wandering into my bathroom.
I scrub clean, feeling the near scalding water trail a burning path down my back. I lean against the wall, thinking of how screwed up everything has become. Everyone's lives are in shambles. I have no affiliation with an organization anymore. After The Covenant was taken care of I had no taste left for the life of working for others.
Sydney fared far worse. Vaughn was severely punished after it was found out that he had tortured Lauren, the CIA has no taste for torture, even of an enemy and Sydney could never look at him the same way again. Jack was killed on a mission three years ago, after that, combined with everything else she had been put through she just shut down. She came to me one night looking for comfort, she knew no one else. I was a last resort, the last place that felt even the slightest bit familiar.
I reached down to shut off the water, wrapping a towel around my waist before heading back into the bedroom. I see her pulling a shirt over her head. Everything she does these days looks difficult, like she has no energy left in her. And then I see the bed.
She made my bed.