Birds of Prey

A Series by Whitelighter Enchantress

II. Flight of the Owl

A/n: I've been sitting with this for awhile now, I suppose it's time to post. Each part is pretty short, so I might start posting two parts at a time. But down to business: this one is a lot longer than number I in the series, and it's Leah's story. I hope you all will still be intrigued.

Disclaimer: Hey guess what- I don't own Alias. Who knew?

Part 1

Deep in the busy city of Toronto, traffic becomes a nightmare late in the evening. The streets are crowded with cars, tour buses, play-goers, and more. Amid the bustle, however, two women cause heads to turn and cars to stop. They strut together, making their way down the sidewalk, their heels clicking in time with the other's.

The doorman gapes at the two, struck by their beauty, and the younger of the two offers him a playful smile and flips her long, dark hair behind her shoulder. She chuckles when the other woman tugs her elbow, forcing her to enter the restaurant. She raises her eyebrow briefly at the older and wiser one, yet she is oblivious. Soon the younger follows suit and keeps her eyes occupied on those around her, immediately forgetting the nervous doorman.

They are seated along the wall, and the elder calmly takes her seat as the younger comments on the restaurant's swanky appearance. She adjusts her dress, slips into her chair, and throws a smile at the woman across from her. This woman, older and wiser, has been everything. All that she is, all that she has done is because of her; for her. And though the two women are often mistaken for sisters, they are not. They are instead, mother and daughter.

She takes in her mother's appearance slowly, wanting to remember every little detail of tonight. Her mother has pulled her brown hair up in a tangle of curls, leaving a few wisps to tickle her face. She sees a few wrinkles form around her lips as she orders an expensive wine for them to share. When the younger opens her mouth to protest her mother casts a glance that demands she shut her mouth. She does, but smirks.

When the waiter leaves, her mother reaches across the table for her daughter's hand, and she gladly accepts it. "Leah," she begins; the small candle in the center of the table illuminates her face as she leans inward, emphasizing a twinkle in her chocolate colored eyes, "I'm so proud of you."

Leah blushes, but does not look away. "I know, Mom."

She leans back in her seat. "A college graduate," she sighs. "And I remember when you were just this tiny little thing…" She proceeds to show her daughter a length with her hands that indicates her size as a baby.

"Not this again," Leah laughs, twisting a wave of her dark hair between her fingers. "I will admit, Mom, this is a much nicer dinner than after high school graduation."

"That's because you didn't care back then. You just wanted to go party with your friends."

She is taken aback. "That's not true!" Her mother raises an eyebrow with a smile. "Okay, maybe a little true… But things were different back then." Things were different, if only slightly. She knew she had much more knowledge and maturity then she did four years ago at this time, but deep down she was the same person.

Growing up, Leah had always wanted to be exactly like her mother. She wanted lighter brown hair, straighter hair, big brown eyes, and a tall, slender body. She wanted to be strong and compassionate, to light up the room she had entered, to be sweet and incredibly smart, and always know what to say. Instead, she had dark hair in gentle waves and dark eyes to match. She had grown taller than her mother, coming in at just under six feet. And she was quiet and observant, absorbing the light in the room rather than creating it.

At first, she abhorred the differences. Why couldn't she appear as happy and talkative as her mother? Why did she possess the qualities of her grandfather, as her mother often commented? Suddenly one day, she had taken a liking to the differences. She can't remember a defining moment or any reasons to the change, she only remembers embracing the differences. She wasn't her mother, but she could still be her best friend, caregiver, confidante, and hero. Their past was complicated, but it only made them stronger together.

Leah can remember, however, recognizing the sadness and grief that her mother's happiness masked. She knew as a child that it sometimes hurt her mother how she resembled Jack Bristow. The way she looked, the way her mind worked… It often made her mother reflect. But their was also an aura about Leah that was distinctly her father's, to which her mother had grown nostalgic. Leah's intense and observant nature would at times be interrupted by her father's charm, and she would interject a humorous remark at the appropriate moments. Naturally, she would follow with her father's trademark smirk.

Her mother once told her. "It's funny how you act more like Grandpa around your peers, but you act more like your dad around me." Never having met her father or grandfather, Leah chose to believe it was God's way of her getting to know them both. Still, it was not enough.

"So," her mother sips her wine, "what's next?"

"I don't know, I guess I have to get a job now." She cracks a smile, but finally pauses to think over her future. She hesitates; future has always seemed so far away, yet today future is tomorrow. Her past was filled with culture and foreign tongues, spending her childhood in Rome speaking both English and Italian. At six her mother transported them to Canada, where they have lived ever since, and she picked up on French. She had played many sports, using her height as an advantage: volleyball, basketball, and running track. Her present is college, though she has now completed it, consisting of term papers and volleyball, which was mainly her life until today: graduation. There had been friends, there had been boyfriends, but they came and went. She always had her mother.

But her future? She will get a job eventually, maybe even attend graduate school, but something she has always wanted is picking at her brain. Something she was never able to do until now, something she desperately wants more than anything. First and foremost, she wishes to touch a part of her past that is a dusty book sitting in the attic unopened…

Certainly, she knows the author. She knows the general plot. She has even caught a glimpse of its deteriorating bindings once or twice throughout her youth. But to run her fingers along its spine, to flip through the pages and inhale its scent, to read the precious words she has been longing to hear her entire life… It is something she has only dreamed of; what she once believed was an impossible feat.

What she knows for certain is this:

His name was Michael Christopher Vaughn.

He had a beautiful smile; a beautiful soul.

His forehead would wrinkle when he was worried or concerned.

He felt extreme loyalty to the people and things he cared about.

He loved his wife more than anything in the world.

His eyes were green.

He enjoyed hockey.

He could not wait to be a father.

He was brutally murdered by a man named Arvin Sloane.

But this information– the things her mother has told her, everything she knows –it is not enough. It does not tell her the sound of his voice, the feeling of his embrace, the intensity and passion in his eyes. It does not tell her how much of his spirit is embedded in her soul despite his absence.

In her childhood, she had carefully removed the lid of a box, and in her adolescence her mother handed her the puzzle piece by piece. She tries to assemble them completely, but cannot. There are still edge pieces missing, but mostly, the center pieces, the ones with jagged edges, rounded peninsulas, and gaping crevices. She has to– needs to –locate them all in order to fit them properly.

At last, she answers, "I'm going to find out who I am."

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