Title: Rose & Thorne
Author: wolfish
Rating: PG (subject to change)
Spoilers: Season 3
Disclaimer: Alias belongs to J.J. Abrams, Bad Robot, and ABC. Not me.
Summary: Some unwelcome visitations from her alter ego, and a little mystery and intrigue, may lead Sydney to the two things she craves most: the re-conquest of Michael Vaughn and the head of Lauren Reed on a platter.
'Ship: SV, because for me, there simply is no other.
A/N: Be patient with me. It will take a lot of background to get to the plot I know most of you out there in fanfictiondom are waiting for. And while you're here, perform your random act of kindness for the day and leave me a review.
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Every rose has its thorn.
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Chapter One
Eric Weiss was sincerely regretting not having that second cup of coffee this morning. It was one of those Monday mornings when a man would happily gouge out his own eyes, and the fact that Disaster had taken up permanent residence on Dixon's brow didn't bode well for the rest of his day. Dixon shuffled a few more papers into a pile, apparently unaware of five impatient individuals that were anticipating his reason for this meeting, and Weiss' eyelids took a dangerous dive that he narrowly averted with some rapid blinking. Screw the coffee; he shouldn't have even gotten out of bed today.
On his left, the person he envied most at the moment, Marshall, had easily withdrawn from the foreboding that stiffened the temper of the briefing room into his own bubble of good will. Occasionally, he ventured a small, buoyant smile at one or other of the room's occupants, but undaunted by the steely wall he repeatedly ran up against, he always returned to his self-imposed task. A towering stack of baby pictures leaned dangerously close to Weiss' elbow, from which Marshall was sorting the digital photos into two new piles, those uploaded on the family website and those which had not been uploaded. Glossy paper hissed against paper in a grating rhythm: uploaded, not uploaded, uploaded, uploaded, not uploaded.
To his right, Vaughn, his one real hope for any sort of conversation, was currently engaged in a staring contest with a suspiciously interesting piece of ceiling panel. Weiss sighed gustily, but the action seemed to make no impression on the stillness. The man was hopeless. Wonder what he's thinking about? As if it wasn't perpetually written across his face.
Across the table, Jack Bristow reached out in one fluid movement to cover his daughter's fingers with his own, putting an end to the incessant tapping that had been rapidly drumming through the last of his restraint. Sydney jerked her head around to stare at him, then realizing her unconscious motions, her hand flattened beneath his and she half-smiled at him, a mixture of mild embarrassment and fretful nerves. Without any effort on his part, he found himself returning the gesture, the tension in his shoulders instantly dissolving. He wanted to tell her that there was nothing to worry about, but he couldn't make his mouth move to form the words; the lie just wasn't worth the energy. Instead, he squeezed her fingers one last time before they both returned to gazing intently at some anonymous point in the middle distance.
At long last, Dixon seemed to be satisfied with his mound of paperwork and turned a thinly stretched look of long-suffering on the assembled, exchanging a few good mornings and pleasantries up and down the table. He settled further back in his chair, dark eyes completely blank and unreadable in all their business-like manner. "Getting to the point, as some of you may have already guessed, there has been a resurgence of activity on Echelon concerning the name Rambaldi. Along with it have been some key words that piqued our concern, including delivery, San Paulo, and…" He aimed one hasty sideways glance at the lone woman in the room, then dropped his eyes ashamedly. "And Sydney Bristow."
Sydney's eyes went round with the first hint of shock. Vaughn's attention was temporarily wrenched away from its meditation on the wall. The muscles in Jack's back seized up again. Dixon barely let himself pause in his haste to move on, hoping to divert the inevitable outburst from all corners. "Obviously, in this situation, the interests of the Agency were aligned firmly with my own, and with their full support I was able to request some preference for this matter. Weiss, Vaughn," two manila folders slid with perfect aim and velocity down the table to skid to a stop in front of their intended recipients, "this will be your mission."
His window of time slammed vehemently shut. "Hold on," Sydney demanded as she tried to pull the scattered bits of her objection into some coherent argument. "My name is being thrown around, and they are the ones assigned the mission? Did I miss something? Shouldn't I have some say in this?"
"Sydney," he used the clout of his new position of authority to turn the word into a reprimand. "If you will wait, once I am finished, I will be glad to explain my decision to you. But now…" he turned his attention to the opposite side of the table. "The two of you will be leading a team to San Paulo. The object is to stake out, and possibly raid, this building." The monitors around the table were switched on by a touch to a button on the remote Dixon held, showing only a picture of a simple, moderately well-kept two-story. "We discovered after some investigation that the lease was signed by a man named Douglas Avery, a known associate of the Covenant, and several witnesses have identified Sark as the man they have frequently seen entering and exiting the property. The rest--patterns in the hours Sark visits, other Covenant visitors that have been identified--is included in the folders I gave you. Your flight leaves in a few hours. If at all possible, that 'delivery' needs to be intercepted, but I trust your discretion."
"'If at all possible'?" Sydney parroted, climbing to her feet, irritated with the frivolity with which the matter was being handled. "Dixon--"
"Sydney, it was my thinking that if I sent two people who you trusted, who obviously have your best interests in mind, that you might be able to understand--"
"Understand what? Trust whom? I don't feel very trusting right now."
He ground his teeth. "Being as close as you are to the situation, we thought the safest approach was to keep you away from any possible danger. We have no intention of repeating the past two years."
"Everything comes back to that, doesn't it? My missing two years. Is it the Agency that doesn't trust me now? Have I not proven myself loyal yet?"
His calm broke and he half-rose in his chair to lean menacingly over the table, matching her blistering glare. "Sit down, Sydney." She wavered under his attack, but it was Jack whose hand wrapped around her wrist to pressure her forcefully back to her seat. Dixon concentrated on one long breath, trying to find some civility to put back into his voice. "You are fortunate to even be allowed in this meeting. Against the CIA's wishes, I chose to include you, so you would not have to learn about this through some back channel because I had the decency not to want to keep any more secrets from you than possible. Apparently, I overestimated your maturity and your rationality. Luckily, I provided myself with an option in just such a case as this. You will be held under observation in a safe house until the time when I conclude that all danger has passed." Dixon collapsed wearily back into his chair and waved a dismissive hand. "Jack, if you would please."
Resignedly, Jack gripped his daughter by the elbow and guided her out of the room and down to the parking garage, where a car was waiting for her.
Dixon pinched the bridge of his nose as he watched the straight, angry posture of her back as it retreated. She had to forgive him. Eventually.
"Weiss, Vaughn," he murmured indifferently, "if you will stay for a few more minutes, Marshall will explain op tech to you."
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Sydney Bristow glowered at the walls of her prison, especially at the one-way glass partition behind which her invisible captors were hiding their faces. Beside the couch she lay on, a pizza box was open on the coffee table, but remained untouched, and the TV blared unremarkable background noise. She couldn't find the appetite to eat food she knew she needed, and she couldn't find any program appealing enough to distract her reflections.
Outside, somewhere, there were people using her name, her identity for something she had never wanted to be a part of. And no one understood that. No one could understand that now, when she finally had her life back to herself, when she had the means to control it again, the fact that someone else could use her without her knowledge was a threat to her very sanity. She was tired of being used. She just wanted to belong to herself for once.
She could feel her grasp on her self-control slackening.
Someone else had claimed her name. Someone else had compelled her into that van this morning. Someone else had put her here. Some else had ordered that food.
Dixon had betrayed her. Her father had betrayed her. Everyone in that room had betrayed her by not objecting to this. Vaughn had betrayed her.
She choked a sob back against her knuckles. These strangers weren't allowed to see her cry.
All she had left to call her own was the small, smoldering pocket of rage festering in her chest.
She curled into a bitter ball against the abrasive fabric of the upholstery. For now at least, she was in charge of her own body, she could still coerce the well-trained muscles to loosen, her heartbeat to slow, her breathing to even. She pressed herself down into the dark pit of oblivion, where she wouldn't think at all.
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Her back hit the wall both literally and figuratively. The woman known as Julia Thorne clutched the oblong object stuffed in her purse possessively to her stomach. She didn't know what she carried, nor did she care; she had only stolen it from the private safe because it was essential in demonstrating to Simon Walker that she was trustworthy and ultimately valuable to have around. And now she was going to risk her life for this little piece of nothing.
She tossed the purse behind her, freeing her hands to pull the combs out of her hair. She pulled the teeth away from the rest of decorative hair ornaments and discarded them, revealing two razor blades. Wielding them, she readied herself for the four muscled men barreling down the hallway after her.
She slashed carelessly at the first one to approach her, drawing blood. He reeled, his hand lured to his shoulder to inspect the damage. Someone that large was unused to anyone landing a blow. She took advantage of the lapse in his guard to slip her blades up her sleeves as she darted behind him, grabbing a vase from a table, and swinging it one rapid motion to shatter against the back of his head. His knees gave out and he crashed to the floor, spreading a pool of blood on the rich carpet.
When all four where laid out in the same way, she considered dragging them into a nearby room to hide the evidence, but she didn't have the time or excess energy it would take. Simon would be anxious to escape with this particular item, and she most likely wouldn't be around when they were discovered.
She inspected her image in a mirror hanging in a powder room a few feet down the corridor before reentering the auction being held in the massive ballroom of the estate. Hell stared back at her out of her own eyes. She reapplied her lipstick and tucked her loose hair firmly behind her ears, deeming herself presentable.
Simon greeted her enthusiastically when she returned, escorting her quickly outside to the car he had waiting. Inside, he could barely wait to inspect his new prize, dangling her purse over his hands and dumping it greedily into his fist. He rolled it over in his palms a few times before smiling appreciatively at her. His eyes were too intent on her lips.
"Brilliant, babe. Just brilliant."
She scowled in the darkness as she maneuvered the car under an overpass.
It was praise, but it wasn't what she was aching for. She remembered someone who would have thoughtfully made a point of the good job she had done, who would have exclaimed over the bruise she could sense growing on the back of her knee, who would have had a band aid for the cut oozing down her shoulder. But she wasn't supposed to remember. That memory belonged to another life, another person.
Sydney Bristow was dead, but at least for tonight Julia Thorne was very much alive.