Title: L'Ecrivain se Lamente [4/7]
Author: Airebella E. Spencer
Rating: R
Feedback: don't make me bed…his_gray_eyes@hotmail.com
Distribution: CM okay, but anyone else, please ask first.
Disclaimer: I'm not JJ Abrams. Don't sue me J
Summary: Sydney and Vaughn are tangled in another web of lies, and their ties are deeper and stronger than what could have ever expected. Part IV: Father like son…
[AN]: I apologize for neglecting my duty as an author, and not posting since gods know when. But I'm back, and I should be finishing the story within a couple of weeks. Big thanks to Karen T for the terrific beta and everyone else for all your support.
" She grew up in east LA watching celebrities living out all of her dreams/The plastic canopy of US royalty drew her gaze towards the sky/and away from her own mind." saves the day.cars and calories
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En mors kjærlighet dør aldri.
A mother's love never dies.
{Now}
he
He understood.
Somehow, at a first glance he could look at her and understand how Jack could have loved her. How someone could feel something other than hate for a woman as brutal as she was, as she had made herself out to be.
No matter how much it pained him to admit it, she was stunningly beautiful.
Her hair was long and straight, pulled back from her nearly immaculate skin. The few wrinkles that dared to disgrace the corner of her eyes and her forehead looked pained to be in existence. Her cheekbones were high and sullen, her eyes deep and haunting. She wore nothing but black-a long black sweater, its sleeves pushed up into the crooks of her elbows, and a pair of dark black slacks that hid all but the toes and the heels of her pumps.
She looked sick, yet overbearing against the different shades of blue. She gazed up then from the faded paperwork she had been examining, and he could feel her sizing him up to an invisible inferior as she stared at him over the top of her black-rimmed glasses. She removed them and straightened, placing the pen that had been in her hand next to the frames on the desk.
The child scrambled past him and ran to her side, giving Grandmére the beckoned hug and kiss. She smiled and scooted past him with a curtsy, her pigtails dancing about the collar of her sundress. He could hear them brush against the door frame, then only silence after she shut the door.
He could hear the breath pass between them, and Irina motioned to the chair behind him. He collapsed into the cushioned seat and watched the devil as she stalked over him, a curious look glazed over her features. She examined him the way she would a piece of meat, or a fruit nearing its ripened state. Her scrutiny made him uncomfortable, and she knew that. She stared at him anyway.
"We knew you'd follow Laura," she began, turning around to begin her steady pacing. "Beautiful little girl, isn't she? Looks just like Sydney did at that age," she replied with a smile.
She smiled. His heartbeat stopped, and she kept on smiling.
That smile.
Sydney's smile.
He froze.
She wore her daughter's dimpled grin with a look of pain and disdained happiness woven into her lips. Her beauty suddenly disappeared, and he saw her as weathered and old. She became damaged, and all he could feel was hate.
"You have his eyes, you know. And his dimples," she spoke absently, her long fingers reaching out to caress the sides of his rough cheeks. He flinched at her touch and swallowed the anger in his mouth.
"What do you want with me?" He twitched from her grip and made his way to stand. Her leeway ended there, and she forced him back down into his seat with ease, pushing him down into the chair so he knew her strength.
"No, Mr. Vaughn, I think you need to rethink that question." She grabbed the idle stool from behind her desk and set it down before him. Irina released her ironed hair from its restraints and placed her hands on the stool's edges, turning her wrists outward, locking her pointed elbows. "The question you should be asking is what does Milo Rambaldi want with you?"
jack
He was restless. Sleep failed to capture and release him from his ordeal. Francie hadn't heard from Sydney in over a week, but he knew where she was.
She was with Her.
But that was hardly the critical issue. He needed to know where. And until he did, he couldn't sleep.
He could only silently scream in his own living nightmare, only this one was different. He could never wake up, because he was already awake.
He wondered if he'd see Her.
He wondered if She tasted the same.
{Then}
she
Her eleventh birthday. Her father was in Singapore; her paternal grandparents, had once again neglected to even call. It was just her, Annika and Olga in the large Spanish villa, on the quiet street in a neighborhood where every street was wide, every driveway circular.
She remembered that it had been easy to feel alone. That day she felt lost.
She had found one of her mother's antiques underneath her pillows. Its interior was embossed in gold, full of sayings in languages she had yet to understand. She could only piece together phrases and try to comprehend their meaning. But she couldn't understand.
She could never understand how her father's heart could be so cold. She could never understand Annika's random tears, or her late night conversations, first in German, then after her(Bristow, Sydney A.) mastery of the language, in Russian.
She could never understand loneliness. She could never understand deceit.
She fit a profile.
{Now}
he
"They foolishly mistook Sydney for me," Irina said. "They will never know that it is so much more complicated than that. They run around trying to prevent this, but they can't. The forty-seventh day has already passed, and now it's too late."
He didn't understand, but he nodded in agreement, not willing to give her control. She would go to her table to read, only to return to her previous position before him ten minutes later. The cycle continued, and she kept moving.
Annika entered shortly after, leading in a cuffed woman clad in all cream. She shoved her prisoner down into a chair that had been brought out and placed besides him, handcuffing her wrists behind her.
The hair was gone from her face and he saw her eyes. Her cheekbones were rosy and full, her expression passive and firm. There was a darkened mark above her right eyebrow, crusting and brown. When she met his eyes, he saw her anger. And as she attempted to smile, he knew something was wrong.
Annika looked different. She appeared weak in the eyes-all he saw was a fragile and delicate person that he didn't recognize. There was an unspoken sorrow laced across each of her green irises, and he didn't know why. She stood in her corner, staring blankly at the hardwood rushes of oak with her thin hands fisted at her sides. His peripheral vision caught them opening and constricting, and he could have sworn that her eyelashes bore a slight twitch.
The door opened and the child named Laura came back to them, cradling a brown leather bundle. She handed it to Irina, then made her way into Annika's awaiting arms, a large dimpled grin plastered across her face. He heard their German and suddenly understood.
But he couldn't understand the shock in Sydney's eyes. Her gaze was lost in memory, and he had to inquire why.
"The girl's eyes are gray," she said.
{Before}
her
She could only feel anger, and for some reason, her eyes began to water. The questions raced through her mind: the how, the why, the where, the what. She longed for an explanation, and yet she craved a reunion. To her, Annika was still beautiful, still exotic. Her skin still radiated a glow that she could never really place, and at once Sydney felt homesick.
But she longed for a place that didn't exist.
A jean cat suit, a golden belt buckle, and a mass of bouncing chestnut curls. The clothing she herself owned, but the volume of her curls was something Sydney could only wish for. She (Deverko, Anna H.) had her folded elbows on each of her knees, and her chin rested on the knuckles of her interlocked fingers. There was a bright twinkle in her emerald eyes, and the smirk painted on her lips was almost mocking.
"Sit." Annika stood.
She could only blink and stare at the women she had once considered a sister, her mind still lost in shock. Her long term memory made slides of every withered picture it had of them, and the questions began to scream in her head. She crossed her arms over her chest to stop the noise, but she never moved.
"Please. Sit." This time, however, it was an order. But Sydney could only stand in defiance, her eyes livid with an unspoken anger. She took a firm stance and blinked, washing away the image of the stranger before her, wiping away all good feeling she could ever possess for her.
The green eyes became empty and dark, and the order was repeated once more. And again, she refused to comply.
So Annika made her sit.
{Now}
her
The explanation came a day later. They had been left there amidst the blue, bound to their chairs by simple cords of plastic. The door opened and the child came in with a tray in her delicate hands, whose items they could identify by smell. Warm bread, feta cheese, and tea. Earl Grey, maybe, she thought. She was wrong, however, because as the jug was brought to her lips, she realized that it was chamomile. She hated chamomile.
Laura fed them one at a time, him first, then her. She took her time and carefully gave them each bite, offering Sydney a concealed bottle of water once she realized that the tea had not been well received. Her gray eyes were soft and comforting, her gentle dimpled smile reassuring.
There was a blink and a pause. She swallowed, and Laura frowned.
"You're pretty," she replied in spotless English, and they couldn't help but stare. Her accent was colonial, like her mother's, but it was tainted with another influence that she couldn't identify. "You look just like Grandmére did in those pictures she has from Russia." Another bite, some chewing, and digestion.
During her time with them from then on she ceased to speak. There was a certain unrest visible in her features. They each got their last sips of fluid and she stood to leave. At the door she became apprehensive, and turned around to face them.
"When you leave, remember that my Mutterl holds the key."
he
An hour later the door opened and the two women entered, each face baring a solemn smile. Annika soundlessly closed the entry, her hand resting on its golden knob a bit longer was than really necessary. Irina sat down on the table, cupping her knees in her hands. Annika stood by her right hand, her wooden curls bouncing past her protruding collarbone down to the bottom of her shoulder blade. The powder blue of her long-sleeved pinstriped Oxford blended into the room's color decor, spare the white collar and cuffs that had been tucked into the corners of her elbows. The flaps of the blouse were loosely tucked into the waist of the knee-length black skirt that covered her long legs, and in the bright light of the room her pearl earrings glistened.
In her attire she appeared to be more in her element. She was captivatingly beautiful, and the shade of blue she wore made her green eyes appeared darkly wicked. Her mask of stone had been reapplied, her gaze solid, her smile seductive.
There was a run in the neutral nylons that Annika wore. The strip was several inches long, and it ran up her left ankle. He couldn't help but stare at the flaw that was painted against her image of perfection. He knew it caught Sydney's eye as well, because he could see its reflection in her pupils.
Their gazes crossed, and they smiled as one.
"We never meant for it to go this far," Irina stated, breaking the silence. Her voice dissolved their smiles like acid, and he squirmed at how soothing he found its tune to be. "This wasn't our plan, was it my Liebling?" She paused, as if awaiting Annika's answer, but she continued before it came. "Her way was different, calmer. Safer, indeed. But when you and Jack-" She paused again, in silent memory of her lover-"dropped Mr. Vaughn in our lap, we had to bite. It was never our intention to drown you, Mr. Vaughn. Had we anticipated your arrival, your capture would have been much more pleasant.
"But I know that you both are concerned with different matters. I believe I've kept you waiting long enough. My ears crave your questions."
Sydney opened her mouth, but hesitated before continuing. She awaited his approval, then spoke.
"Where are we?"
"The Derevko family estate in the south of Crete," Annika answered, her voice fluid. Her gaze was pasted on the leg of his chair, and with her voice her eyes would blink.
"Who are you?" Sydney spat bitterly, her voice full of disgust, her eyes lit with disappointment.
Laughter.
"Dear child, I'm your mother. That fact still has yet to change."
"But who is she?"
"My daughter.
she
Silence draped itself over them. She saw Annika's eyes slowly cloud over with tears, contradicting the impassive expression on her face.
I'm sorry.
Sydney's voice had escaped her and although she moved her lips, no sound would pass through them. All she heard was a faint cough, a strange sort of struggled choke. She swallowed.
"The circumstances of her birth are complicated and of no worth to the two of you. Her father is a German; her paternity has never been a lie to you."
"The girl-" Sydney stuttered, her voice finally returned. It was coarse and foreign to her own ear. "Alexander-"
"My husband," Annika said, running a long finger over the smooth surface of a golden band. For the first time Sydney noticed the large diamond that rested on Annika's left ring finger, blinded as the light passed through its crystals and glistened in her eyes.
"Alexander and I bear no blood relation," Irina stated coldly, noting the disgust in her younger daughter's eyes. "He was raised by my youngest brother. Generous, in my opinion, since Alexander is the product of his mother's affair."
She was suffocating. She could slowly feel her throat closing with each new reply that floated from her mother's lips to her ears. The blue was closing in on her and a new claustrophobia blossomed within her. Her mind was bleeding and she couldn't breath.
I'm sorry.
A fog glazed itself over her eyes, and the tears wouldn't come to clear it away. She began to blink rapidly, hoping to clear away her blurred vision, hoping in vain, because all she could see were jaded green eyes.
I'm sorry.
he
The women had left for what seemed like an eternity, but he knew by the watch on Irina's wrist when she later returned that it had only been an hour. Between the time of their departure and arrival they were fed, the small child avoiding their eyes, chiding their smiles with a solemn frown. A possible ten minutes had passed from the time Laura left them to when they were back.
No introduction was needed.
"The forty-seventh day-" he started, just as the feeling returned to his fingers. "The forty-seventh day-"
"Has come and gone," Irina interrupted, frowning at his lack of eloquence. "But I suppose you don't understand. Your SD-6 and the CIA have no understanding of it. They know of its existence, but they don't know its meaning. Therefore they ignore it.
"I will say this. It is more than we expected. Much more. It might be too much to reveal now, but there is no way to time how fast everything will unravel. The map, Liebling?"
Annika approached them, from the back of the room, a small side table cradled in her hands. She placed it before them, and returned to the desk to retrieve a faded scroll. She spread out the stained paper before them and resumed her post.
His eyes adjusted to the small writing, and he blinked away his doubt. The slanted print before them was still miniscule in size, faded from the many years of wear. He searched frantically for an explanation, but he was met with none. The paper was marked by numbers.
Two. March 16, 1950.
His memory began to scream in protest, and he remembered the number vaguely. Jack Bristow?
Eight. November 27, 1968.
He stopped looking.
Eleven. April 17, 1974.
He could hear Sydney next to him, feel her breath on his arm, now heavy and rapidly increased. There was a choking sound that he heard, someone gasping for breath, someone choking on their own saliva, someone choking on their own oxygen. He wasn't sure anymore that it wasn't him.
Forty Seven. June 25, 2002
Her capture. The day after.
"On the forty-seventh day, their blood will combine, and with its shedding, the end shall follow."
[End Part IV]
