Title: Associations
Author: sirona7
Email: lclos@aol.com
URLs: Posted at www.nocturnalactivities.net
Keywords: Vignette, Jack POV, Jack/Dr. Barnett
Timeline: S1, The Solution
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Now in therapy and forced to keep a journal, Jack begins to make associations
between his past and his present situations.
Author's Note: Apologies to John Le Carre for my poor attempts to give form to his
excellent hints about the "dusty corners" where spies go to drink and talk.
Disclaimer: Alias and its characters belong to J.J. Abrams and ABC. I own nothing and
will not profit from the story. "The Solution" was written by John Eisendrath.
*******
ASSOCIATIONS
As the long fingers of the rising sun reached across the bed and caressed his cheek, Jack
lay still, eyes closed, absorbing the sounds of life around him. Mrs. Zhang's news
program was on, and though the volume was low, he could clearly hear the announcers'
fiery Xiang accent.
The bruised Ormulu clock on the bureau ticked loudly away, and far below, the first signs
of traffic were beginning to crescendo as brakes squealed and engines revved. Taking in a
deep breath, his head clear, he thought, "Maybe I'll get that journal out of the way right
now."
First things first, however, he leaned over to reach the discreet, recessed plate on the wall
next to the king-sized bed. "Good morning, Mrs. Zhang. I'm up but I won't be going out
for about an hour. Just the usual for breakfast."
He quickly pulled on well-worn jeans and ducking into the washroom, ran a brush through
his unruly hair and splashed water on his face. "God, you're looking old, Bristow. It
won't be many more years and your hair won't be gray but white." He stood looking in the
mirror appraisingly. He was considered handsome by some but now he felt he looked
distinguished, youthful but no longer young. His muscle tone was good and he kept his
fighting form. He had feline reflexes and was still faster with a weapon than 99.9% of
agents. But then, only that .1% would brave Jack Bristow with deadly intent.
He made his way down the hall without a noise to the tiny study off the library. He opened
the taupe silk curtains and sat down. "I'd really like to get a handle on this before it gets
away from me completely." Unlocking the drawer of the tiger maple desk, he pulled out a
Titanium notebook. He logged on and opened a new document.
"Let's see what comes from Pandora's box today."
*******
Journal entry
I admit that I was skeptical about this journal business. But perhaps there may be merit to it
after-all. You said there would be associations and I guess I hadn't realized, a.) that I might
still be accessible to making associations on an emotional level and, b.) that this one might
have been there all the time. I hadn't fully grasped the gestalt, that it was her voice I first
noticed. And this coming years after I thought the all of it put to rest...Point taken.
Why is this relevant? When I said I don't remember my parents, it wasn't precisely true. I
can't really see her but I can hear my mother's voice. She was a singer. She had a lyric
soprano with an almost ethereal luminance. I remember little else about her, she worked
and wasn't around. But, I do remember, late at night, listening to her talk to my father. The
content is gone, I only remember the comfort of her words. I think Shakespeare caught the
feeling so well,"...and let the sounds of music, Creep in our ears, soft stillness and the
night, Become the touches of sweet harmony." That is what it was like to waken to her
voice.
NOTE: Don't put too much weight on this thin branch, Dr. Barnett, we're a long way from
Vienna. Irina Derevko had a mezzo-soprano and that's enough said on the subject.
*******
"233 words-a wee insight, perhaps not enough of a revelation for the good doctor." Jack
picked up the picture from the desk. Its bent metal frame was tinged green and the photo
was stained and faded. He had once thought to have the picture and the frame restored but
in the end had left them as they had come to him. Light washed gold over his shoulder
obscuring the image in glare. He smiled, "Perfect. The more light, the less I see." He put
the picture face down on the desk.
He usually wrote with great dexterity. But like playing Chopin well, to write this journal,
one had to reach beyond sentiment. Schumann said it best, didn't he? "This is a cannon
hidden under flowers." Not for the first time, he wished he had more time for music. He
continued writing.
*******
Now, my father I went places with; he took me to the grocers and the laundry, to church
and to the pub. He seems to have been the kind of man others liked instinctively, ready
smile, twinkling eye, that sort. I have no idea what he did to earn a living, if anything, but
he liked to tell stories and we were greeted everywhere with an open door and a drink. I
think I acquired my taste for dusty corners and gathering spots from him. When I had my
first taste of scotch, must have been 15 years later, I felt revived, it was the aroma of my
father.
*******
Jack sat back from the notebook. "Oh God, this is reading like Angela's Ashes. Stop now
Jack. It'll never do." His shoulders had tensed arcing up like a cat. "Maybe I shouldn't
emote first thing in the morning." he half-smiled and closed the document. From what
obscure cavity did the Irish lilt escape? Replacing the Macintosh in the drawer, he picked
up the picture once more. It was disquieting to consider that he mightn't have any true
memories of them. Had Dr. Barnett been right, had he lived with deceit so long, it was
overwhelming him?
This thought came back with vulgar force later in the day. Sydney approached him about
Emily Sloane's deadly confession. It pained him that she had this to bear too, especially
following so closely on Noah's demise and her transcendent need to find her mother. Her
determination rang loud the alarum bells. However much he wanted to take up her misery,
it was vital that Sydney realize the grave danger in which she lived. She could not afford to
carry any illusions about the monsters that inhabited her world. Instead of acknowledging
her pain, he had admonished her not to take any rash action and she left feeling dejected. It
was so typical of him, so like the rigid Puritan elder, but he knew that these feelings were
an indulgence neither of them could proffer the other. And, as usual, he had utterly failed to
communicate anything except emotional sterility.
Stopping by Seth's desk, he said, "I won't be back today. Let me know how 0-14 team
does."
*******
An hour later, Jack settled again in the driver's seat of the Town Car. He was glad that
Winston's could deliver the bouquet to Angel of Mercy that day. He smiled remembering
the selection of field-grown flowers, a country garden palette of blues, pinks, and purples,
with white stocks, and sweetpeas. Something for every sense: it should please her. He
hoped she remembered those times; Emily and Arvin were an inextricable part of that long
passed age of innocence. They had quietly shared in each others lives for decades and now
he wondered what would be a fitting close to their circle. He was confident that, however
cruelly this scenario played out, Arvin Sloane wouldn't allow anyone to kill Emily. Anyone
else that is. "How did we ever get to this place, old friend?"
As Jack drove away, he thought back to another summer's day. They were just two happy
couples then sharing a languid afternoon. It was late August 1972, and they were
picnicking in the University Parks by the river Cherwell. Arvin had recently been in
Germany and brought back a case of 1964 Bernkasteler Doctor. The wine, the company,
and the heat of the afternoon conspired to create a perfect moment.
Propped up by an ash tree, he lay pretending to read Donne. She wore a paisley sundress,
a turmoil of blues, pinks, and purples. As she leaned over to read aloud a particular stanza,
the strap slid down her upper arm, and the bodice puckered open.
Speaking in richly modulated tones like the professor she would become, "Of all people,
Jack, you should grasp the metaphysical poets. Donne's microscopic subtlety and economy
of connotation are mathematical in precision."
She moved closer to him, her breath brushing his neck, soft as the beat of an owl's wing.
"Jack, are you paying proper attention?" He could feel himself blush deeply. As usual, his
desires were transparent to her. They shared a smile
"Let me have that book, you bad boy. These are Holy Sonnets. 'What if this present were
the world's last night?...'"
*******
"Mike, I think a double is in order." Jack said as he hitched up onto the plush stool at
Pearl's, a misleadingly modest establishment that was the drinking home for a certain class
of "secret servant."
Pearl, a legendary case officer in the cold days of the fifties and sixties, had long since
retired from the trade, but not before she left an indelible mark on a generation of
probationers, her "cygnets." Jack Bristow earned his wings during the Russian invasion
of Czechoslovakia in the summer of 1968; getting in and out of impossible situations
employing facile thinking, raw courage, and a penchant for violence that surprised even
Pearl.
In 1979, Pearl inherited this rambling corner place from a doting uncle. She knew just what
she wanted to do: "Get the hell out of Berlin, find a good man, and drink for free
someplace I won't be looking over my shoulder every earthly minute." Mike, her
grandson, ran the place now. Jack liked Mike. He seemed a good judge of people, a fact
greatly complicated by the nature of Pearl's clientele and the unusual perspective one
acquires of life from his side of the bar.
Mike said with a shake of the head, "One of those days, 'ay Mr. Bristow? I suggest a quick
one, 12 years." With an agreeably weary nod from Jack, Mike took a cut crystal tumbler
from the shelf, added two ice cubes, and poured a heavy count of 12 year old Macallan for
one of his favorite customers.
Knocking back the double, Jack said. "Good thinking. I need to make a call."
Mike nodded toward the door on the far side of the bar. Jack walked into the familiar
hallway that led deep into the private part of the building. Lined with doors discreetly
marked by flags, he looked for one with a green tab. Stepping into a windowless room,
more the size of a dressing room, he sat down in a wingback chair. "Well, once more, into
the breach," he thought, dialing a number on his cell phone.
She answered almost immediately, "Judy Barnett."
"Hello, Dr. Barnett. I hope I haven't interrupted..."
Beat as she placed the voice, "No, It's fine. This is my call-in time. Everyday, I try to be
available for calls around this time. How are you, Jack? Am I going to see you?"
"Listen, Something's come up. Can I reschedule?" His tone was all business.
"We discussed the need for consistency in your visits at least for this initial phase." She
said, digging in.
"Yes, I recall. It can't be helped. I wouldn't have called but it's the critical stage of a
mission."
"I'll be here late. Can you come by at 7?"
He held his ground, "Impossible to predict when I'll be free."
Retreating a little, "I understand the unpredictable nature of your work, Jack. But, what we
do here is also important. In the end, this work may make it possible for you to fulfill your
duties with greater clarity and better results. Besides, you could leave if you needed to."
Considering the compromise, and dismissing it, he answered, "Not feasible. Do you have
time tomorrow?"
Judy Barnett had to realize that this relationship was fragile, it wasn't worth risking a
fracture over a day's delay. "We'll make it tomorrow then, but please be sure to bring the
journal so we can review it."
"The journal...of course, I'll bring it."
"I just want to stress how important it is to our work that you write in the journal everyday.
It doesn't have to be long but it does need to be truthful. Don't worry about polishing
prose, Jack, it's not a writing assignment really, it's about making associations. Report the
pictures taken by your mind's eye."
"Right, mind's eye. What time tomorrow?"
"I can make time at 1:30."
"I'll see you then." Jack said as he disconnected, thinking, "Trust me, Dr. Judy, you don't
really want to see what's in my mind's eye."
As if to mock him, a scene from childhood replayed in his mind in photographic detail: The
characteristic white light of midsummer in the far north bathed the wood-paneled classroom
in harshness, throwing deep shadows on the contorted face of Brother Michael. He was
angry, terrifyingly angry.
"Why must you always question my authority, Jonathon? Do you think it proves you're
clever?" Jack had known the probable outcome of the offending remark, but something
inside drove him to ask anyway.
"Boys, here we have illustration of another of the Proverbs, 16:18, 'Pride goeth before
destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall'."
He stood by the little desk willing himself to take the punishment without any tears. Next
he felt the strap as Brother Michael said, in a voice oily as it was grave, "One day you'll
thank me."
Replacing the phone in his pocket, Jack sat staring at the wall. The dizzying pattern of the
wallpaper resembled nothing remotely natural despite the fact that each individual flower
was rendered with great fidelity. "An allegory of life," he thought but he felt too heavy-
hearted to smile. "Hell, don't start down that road, there lies madness." He needed another
drink.
Shaking off the cold grip of the memory, he reached for the door, "Well now, Dr. Barnett,
here's a little view from my mind's eye. How would you handicap, psychologically
speaking, this hypothetical encounter? On the one side is yours truly, whose assets I
somewhat modestly contend comprise a generous measure of acumen and strategic
resourcefulness commedled with guile and layered over with hubris and a huge measure of
obstinacy. On the other side, my opponent, whose assets (oh yes...so many assets) are
formidable. Lets begin with unknown operational resources including, but not limited to,
maximum insider information; impossible to predict motivations; supremely treacherous
technique; an adversary so powerful that a Renaissance prophet could see her coming from
four hundred years away, one Irina Derevko, my no-longer-dead ex-wife."
THE END
Author: sirona7
Email: lclos@aol.com
URLs: Posted at www.nocturnalactivities.net
Keywords: Vignette, Jack POV, Jack/Dr. Barnett
Timeline: S1, The Solution
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Now in therapy and forced to keep a journal, Jack begins to make associations
between his past and his present situations.
Author's Note: Apologies to John Le Carre for my poor attempts to give form to his
excellent hints about the "dusty corners" where spies go to drink and talk.
Disclaimer: Alias and its characters belong to J.J. Abrams and ABC. I own nothing and
will not profit from the story. "The Solution" was written by John Eisendrath.
*******
ASSOCIATIONS
As the long fingers of the rising sun reached across the bed and caressed his cheek, Jack
lay still, eyes closed, absorbing the sounds of life around him. Mrs. Zhang's news
program was on, and though the volume was low, he could clearly hear the announcers'
fiery Xiang accent.
The bruised Ormulu clock on the bureau ticked loudly away, and far below, the first signs
of traffic were beginning to crescendo as brakes squealed and engines revved. Taking in a
deep breath, his head clear, he thought, "Maybe I'll get that journal out of the way right
now."
First things first, however, he leaned over to reach the discreet, recessed plate on the wall
next to the king-sized bed. "Good morning, Mrs. Zhang. I'm up but I won't be going out
for about an hour. Just the usual for breakfast."
He quickly pulled on well-worn jeans and ducking into the washroom, ran a brush through
his unruly hair and splashed water on his face. "God, you're looking old, Bristow. It
won't be many more years and your hair won't be gray but white." He stood looking in the
mirror appraisingly. He was considered handsome by some but now he felt he looked
distinguished, youthful but no longer young. His muscle tone was good and he kept his
fighting form. He had feline reflexes and was still faster with a weapon than 99.9% of
agents. But then, only that .1% would brave Jack Bristow with deadly intent.
He made his way down the hall without a noise to the tiny study off the library. He opened
the taupe silk curtains and sat down. "I'd really like to get a handle on this before it gets
away from me completely." Unlocking the drawer of the tiger maple desk, he pulled out a
Titanium notebook. He logged on and opened a new document.
"Let's see what comes from Pandora's box today."
*******
Journal entry
I admit that I was skeptical about this journal business. But perhaps there may be merit to it
after-all. You said there would be associations and I guess I hadn't realized, a.) that I might
still be accessible to making associations on an emotional level and, b.) that this one might
have been there all the time. I hadn't fully grasped the gestalt, that it was her voice I first
noticed. And this coming years after I thought the all of it put to rest...Point taken.
Why is this relevant? When I said I don't remember my parents, it wasn't precisely true. I
can't really see her but I can hear my mother's voice. She was a singer. She had a lyric
soprano with an almost ethereal luminance. I remember little else about her, she worked
and wasn't around. But, I do remember, late at night, listening to her talk to my father. The
content is gone, I only remember the comfort of her words. I think Shakespeare caught the
feeling so well,"...and let the sounds of music, Creep in our ears, soft stillness and the
night, Become the touches of sweet harmony." That is what it was like to waken to her
voice.
NOTE: Don't put too much weight on this thin branch, Dr. Barnett, we're a long way from
Vienna. Irina Derevko had a mezzo-soprano and that's enough said on the subject.
*******
"233 words-a wee insight, perhaps not enough of a revelation for the good doctor." Jack
picked up the picture from the desk. Its bent metal frame was tinged green and the photo
was stained and faded. He had once thought to have the picture and the frame restored but
in the end had left them as they had come to him. Light washed gold over his shoulder
obscuring the image in glare. He smiled, "Perfect. The more light, the less I see." He put
the picture face down on the desk.
He usually wrote with great dexterity. But like playing Chopin well, to write this journal,
one had to reach beyond sentiment. Schumann said it best, didn't he? "This is a cannon
hidden under flowers." Not for the first time, he wished he had more time for music. He
continued writing.
*******
Now, my father I went places with; he took me to the grocers and the laundry, to church
and to the pub. He seems to have been the kind of man others liked instinctively, ready
smile, twinkling eye, that sort. I have no idea what he did to earn a living, if anything, but
he liked to tell stories and we were greeted everywhere with an open door and a drink. I
think I acquired my taste for dusty corners and gathering spots from him. When I had my
first taste of scotch, must have been 15 years later, I felt revived, it was the aroma of my
father.
*******
Jack sat back from the notebook. "Oh God, this is reading like Angela's Ashes. Stop now
Jack. It'll never do." His shoulders had tensed arcing up like a cat. "Maybe I shouldn't
emote first thing in the morning." he half-smiled and closed the document. From what
obscure cavity did the Irish lilt escape? Replacing the Macintosh in the drawer, he picked
up the picture once more. It was disquieting to consider that he mightn't have any true
memories of them. Had Dr. Barnett been right, had he lived with deceit so long, it was
overwhelming him?
This thought came back with vulgar force later in the day. Sydney approached him about
Emily Sloane's deadly confession. It pained him that she had this to bear too, especially
following so closely on Noah's demise and her transcendent need to find her mother. Her
determination rang loud the alarum bells. However much he wanted to take up her misery,
it was vital that Sydney realize the grave danger in which she lived. She could not afford to
carry any illusions about the monsters that inhabited her world. Instead of acknowledging
her pain, he had admonished her not to take any rash action and she left feeling dejected. It
was so typical of him, so like the rigid Puritan elder, but he knew that these feelings were
an indulgence neither of them could proffer the other. And, as usual, he had utterly failed to
communicate anything except emotional sterility.
Stopping by Seth's desk, he said, "I won't be back today. Let me know how 0-14 team
does."
*******
An hour later, Jack settled again in the driver's seat of the Town Car. He was glad that
Winston's could deliver the bouquet to Angel of Mercy that day. He smiled remembering
the selection of field-grown flowers, a country garden palette of blues, pinks, and purples,
with white stocks, and sweetpeas. Something for every sense: it should please her. He
hoped she remembered those times; Emily and Arvin were an inextricable part of that long
passed age of innocence. They had quietly shared in each others lives for decades and now
he wondered what would be a fitting close to their circle. He was confident that, however
cruelly this scenario played out, Arvin Sloane wouldn't allow anyone to kill Emily. Anyone
else that is. "How did we ever get to this place, old friend?"
As Jack drove away, he thought back to another summer's day. They were just two happy
couples then sharing a languid afternoon. It was late August 1972, and they were
picnicking in the University Parks by the river Cherwell. Arvin had recently been in
Germany and brought back a case of 1964 Bernkasteler Doctor. The wine, the company,
and the heat of the afternoon conspired to create a perfect moment.
Propped up by an ash tree, he lay pretending to read Donne. She wore a paisley sundress,
a turmoil of blues, pinks, and purples. As she leaned over to read aloud a particular stanza,
the strap slid down her upper arm, and the bodice puckered open.
Speaking in richly modulated tones like the professor she would become, "Of all people,
Jack, you should grasp the metaphysical poets. Donne's microscopic subtlety and economy
of connotation are mathematical in precision."
She moved closer to him, her breath brushing his neck, soft as the beat of an owl's wing.
"Jack, are you paying proper attention?" He could feel himself blush deeply. As usual, his
desires were transparent to her. They shared a smile
"Let me have that book, you bad boy. These are Holy Sonnets. 'What if this present were
the world's last night?...'"
*******
"Mike, I think a double is in order." Jack said as he hitched up onto the plush stool at
Pearl's, a misleadingly modest establishment that was the drinking home for a certain class
of "secret servant."
Pearl, a legendary case officer in the cold days of the fifties and sixties, had long since
retired from the trade, but not before she left an indelible mark on a generation of
probationers, her "cygnets." Jack Bristow earned his wings during the Russian invasion
of Czechoslovakia in the summer of 1968; getting in and out of impossible situations
employing facile thinking, raw courage, and a penchant for violence that surprised even
Pearl.
In 1979, Pearl inherited this rambling corner place from a doting uncle. She knew just what
she wanted to do: "Get the hell out of Berlin, find a good man, and drink for free
someplace I won't be looking over my shoulder every earthly minute." Mike, her
grandson, ran the place now. Jack liked Mike. He seemed a good judge of people, a fact
greatly complicated by the nature of Pearl's clientele and the unusual perspective one
acquires of life from his side of the bar.
Mike said with a shake of the head, "One of those days, 'ay Mr. Bristow? I suggest a quick
one, 12 years." With an agreeably weary nod from Jack, Mike took a cut crystal tumbler
from the shelf, added two ice cubes, and poured a heavy count of 12 year old Macallan for
one of his favorite customers.
Knocking back the double, Jack said. "Good thinking. I need to make a call."
Mike nodded toward the door on the far side of the bar. Jack walked into the familiar
hallway that led deep into the private part of the building. Lined with doors discreetly
marked by flags, he looked for one with a green tab. Stepping into a windowless room,
more the size of a dressing room, he sat down in a wingback chair. "Well, once more, into
the breach," he thought, dialing a number on his cell phone.
She answered almost immediately, "Judy Barnett."
"Hello, Dr. Barnett. I hope I haven't interrupted..."
Beat as she placed the voice, "No, It's fine. This is my call-in time. Everyday, I try to be
available for calls around this time. How are you, Jack? Am I going to see you?"
"Listen, Something's come up. Can I reschedule?" His tone was all business.
"We discussed the need for consistency in your visits at least for this initial phase." She
said, digging in.
"Yes, I recall. It can't be helped. I wouldn't have called but it's the critical stage of a
mission."
"I'll be here late. Can you come by at 7?"
He held his ground, "Impossible to predict when I'll be free."
Retreating a little, "I understand the unpredictable nature of your work, Jack. But, what we
do here is also important. In the end, this work may make it possible for you to fulfill your
duties with greater clarity and better results. Besides, you could leave if you needed to."
Considering the compromise, and dismissing it, he answered, "Not feasible. Do you have
time tomorrow?"
Judy Barnett had to realize that this relationship was fragile, it wasn't worth risking a
fracture over a day's delay. "We'll make it tomorrow then, but please be sure to bring the
journal so we can review it."
"The journal...of course, I'll bring it."
"I just want to stress how important it is to our work that you write in the journal everyday.
It doesn't have to be long but it does need to be truthful. Don't worry about polishing
prose, Jack, it's not a writing assignment really, it's about making associations. Report the
pictures taken by your mind's eye."
"Right, mind's eye. What time tomorrow?"
"I can make time at 1:30."
"I'll see you then." Jack said as he disconnected, thinking, "Trust me, Dr. Judy, you don't
really want to see what's in my mind's eye."
As if to mock him, a scene from childhood replayed in his mind in photographic detail: The
characteristic white light of midsummer in the far north bathed the wood-paneled classroom
in harshness, throwing deep shadows on the contorted face of Brother Michael. He was
angry, terrifyingly angry.
"Why must you always question my authority, Jonathon? Do you think it proves you're
clever?" Jack had known the probable outcome of the offending remark, but something
inside drove him to ask anyway.
"Boys, here we have illustration of another of the Proverbs, 16:18, 'Pride goeth before
destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall'."
He stood by the little desk willing himself to take the punishment without any tears. Next
he felt the strap as Brother Michael said, in a voice oily as it was grave, "One day you'll
thank me."
Replacing the phone in his pocket, Jack sat staring at the wall. The dizzying pattern of the
wallpaper resembled nothing remotely natural despite the fact that each individual flower
was rendered with great fidelity. "An allegory of life," he thought but he felt too heavy-
hearted to smile. "Hell, don't start down that road, there lies madness." He needed another
drink.
Shaking off the cold grip of the memory, he reached for the door, "Well now, Dr. Barnett,
here's a little view from my mind's eye. How would you handicap, psychologically
speaking, this hypothetical encounter? On the one side is yours truly, whose assets I
somewhat modestly contend comprise a generous measure of acumen and strategic
resourcefulness commedled with guile and layered over with hubris and a huge measure of
obstinacy. On the other side, my opponent, whose assets (oh yes...so many assets) are
formidable. Lets begin with unknown operational resources including, but not limited to,
maximum insider information; impossible to predict motivations; supremely treacherous
technique; an adversary so powerful that a Renaissance prophet could see her coming from
four hundred years away, one Irina Derevko, my no-longer-dead ex-wife."
THE END