Author's Note:
This is my first "Alias" fic, although I've written for other categories; I'm still bitter that my music fic was taken off the board. Anyway, please let me know what you think. I hope you enjoy! (and please don't hate me for including a Jennifer Love Hewitt song. I tried to avoid it, but the words just fit too well.)
~ * ~
"And I feel bare naked
And I just can't take it
I'm getting jaded
No, I just can't fake it anymore
'Cause I'm bare naked
And I know life's what you make it
Wish I could float away
To some other day"
- "Barenaked," Jennifer Love Hewitt
~ * ~
Missions are a tricky business. They require me to use skills I don't want to possess, think in ways I wish I couldn't. I have to harden my heart and sharpen my mind and lose all the traits that make me human. Traits like compassion, sympathy, understanding. In their place I substitute determination, aggression, callousness. It's not something most people can do; it's not something I'm proud of. But it's something I can't avoid, not if I want to survive in my world.
Will asked me about it last week, how I can live a life as two people, because for the life of him, he can't understand how the Sydney he loves so dearly can be a deadly spy. I didn't know how to explain it to him. I still don't think I can, but it made me think. I've never been comfortable with living a double life, lying to the people I care about, but lately I've become more accustomed to it. It doesn't mean I hate it any less, just that I'm learning to live with it.
And the more I thought about Will's question, the more I began to analyze the state of my life, my choices. I don't know how a girl named Sydney can evolve in to Agent Bristow, ass-kicking, crime-fighting, super-spy. I don't know what gives me the ability to compartmentalize my feelings, to lock away all that makes me a living, breathing, loving woman. But I can try and guess, and for a woman used to living without the things she truly wants, a guess has to be good enough.
~ * ~
I think, of all the things I do for my job, I like the disguises best. It's like playing dress up, creating a different character for every mission. I get to learn a new language, wear a fancy costume, pretend I'm someone else living a far more normal life. I've been a vixen, a princess, even a Southern belle. I've worn leather and lace and silk that reveals more then it covers. I've been a loving daughter and a saucy Brit and a world-renown doctor. I've been everything but Sydney, everything except the real me.
I think it's the dresses, the make up, the wigs--everything that helps me become the characters I play, that let me do the things I do. Because no one I've killed or stolen from--none of them have seen the real me. They've seen blond curls and smoky eyes, but never the woman underneath. My god, they don't even know what I really look like. When I'm wearing leather catsuits and silk dresses, when my hair is a color I wasn't born with, I can become someone else. I can pretend I'm someone else, pretend I'm capable of doing the things I hate and go through with them. Sydney couldn't arrange a man's murder--but Agent Bristow can. Wearing clothes that aren't mine, pretending to be someone I'm not, I can be anyone, do anything. I don't worry about my morals or my conscience when I'm doing my job. I can hide behind the wigs and dresses and bug-killing lipsticks, and find strength to do things I never thought possible--like have a man killed in cold blood.
When I'm without my disguises, when my hair is brown and my eyes doe-eyed, all that makes me Agent Bristow disappears. Because Agent Bristow only exists when I'm wearing a costume, assuming a role, playing a part that isn't really mine. Without the props, Agent Bristow can't exist and all that's left is Sydney, daughter, friend, lover. . .but never spy. And Sydney can't hide who she is; she can't be what Agent Bristow becomes.
~ * ~
Sark knew it. He knew I was crumbling and he hit me where it hurt the most. When he turned the sprinklers on and let the chemicals eat at my suit, at the façade Agent Bristow wore, he knew he'd won. When he cornered me, made me make a deal with the devil, he knew it wasn't Agent Bristow he was dealing with, but Sydney. He knew he might not be able to beat Agent Bristow, but he knew Sydney didn't stand a chance against him. He watched me, from his perch in the observation room, his lips curved in a smirk, and gave me his terms. I wonder if Agent Bristow would have turned him down, but Sydney couldn't. Because Sydney has a heart, she has a soul, and she has a conscience. Sydney can't kill men in cold blood, even if Agent Bristow can.
That night, I felt what it was like for Sydney to be trapped in Agent Bristow's body. I felt the pull of emotions, the tug of war over right and wrong. I felt her mind freeze; felt her heart clench; felt everything I struggle so hard to hide when I'm Agent Bristow.
When I stood there under the chemicals, my skin stripped of the fancy clothes and silky wigs, for the first time I felt alone. And for the first time I felt stripped bare, because without the costumes I needed to play my role, I couldn't be Agent Bristow--and I needed to be Agent Bristow that night, in order to save Vaughn. . .in order to save myself. Because I knew if I crumbled under pressure, if I didn't come through for Vaughn, I would never forgive myself--and I wasn't sure I could life like that.
~ * ~
Sark didn't make it any easier. I'll never forget standing under the water that night, feeling his eyes on me as the water pounded the chemicals off my skin. His eyes never left mine the entire time, a pair of blue locked with a set of brown. He saw a woman no one has ever seen, not even Vaughn. He saw Sydney, bare to her soul, without the luxury of clothes or wigs or make up to shield who she really is. He saw the lost daughter, the lonely lover, the scared little girl that no one else sees. He saw a pair of brown eyes and wet dark hair and a quivering mouth. He saw me completely defenseless, saw me without the guns and leather and gadgets I hide behind. When he looked in my eyes he saw only Sydney, without a trace of Agent Bristow lurking in their dark depths.
It scared me to death, being that vulnerable, that exposed, in front of someone so dangerous. But I think it was his reaction that scared me more.
I thought he'd take advantage of the situation, how he had me naked and alone with his eyes on me. But he surprised me, like he's done so many times before.
Our deal was done; I'd made my choice. I'd agreed to his terms and sealed my fate along the way. He didn't need to do anything else but let me go--but he did anyway. He shooed away the guards, the technicians, everyone in the room, until it was just us. He circled me, like a hunter circling his prey, his eyes still on me. I was wet and cold and fighting so hard to stay in control. I had to be Agent Bristow, but Sydney was pulling at me, fighting to come out; I didn't know how much longer I could keep her at bay, and once she was out, I was lost.
"What do you want?" I hissed, partly from annoyance and partly from cold; it could have also been from embarrassment, but I refused to let him see that he got to me. He eyed me up and down, his eyes tracing a path up my naked body. I resisted crossing my arms over my breasts or crossing my legs. Instead I straightened my posture and steeled my eyes. Ah, that's better; no trace of Sydney in sight, only Agent Bristow.
He continued his appraisal, his eyes fixing on my bare breasts. "What makes you think I want something?"
"You always want something." I know I shouldn't be warm, not with cold air blowing steadily across my wet skin, but I am. Sark's eyes are hot and hooded and my skin is warm everywhere they look.
He looks up so his eyes meet mine. "What if I said I only want the pleasure of your company?"
"I'd say you're a liar."
"Ah, but I always keep my promises. I said we'd work together, didn't I?" A smile quirks his mouth and his gaze moves lower, this time fastening on my mouth. His cell phone rings, he turns to answer it, and I decide it's time to go. I take off at a run, trying to edge past him to the door, but he's too fast. He grabs me as I rush by, pulling me towards him. The force of his movement causes us to slip on the slick floor and we collapse in a heap, his body pressing mine against the cold tile.
"Going somewhere, Agent Bristow?" he asks, his breath warm against my cheeks. I look up and into his blue eyes. They sparkle with amusement as a slow smile curves his mouth. "You didn't think I'd let you leave without saying goodbye, did you?"
It's hard to speak with his weight pressing against me, his hard muscles fitting perfectly against my curves, his mouth only a scant inch from mine. "I was bored. And cold."
He laughs and runs a hand down bare side. "You're not cold now are you? Tell me, Sydney."
Why can't he call me Agent Bristow? At least with her name, I can pretend to be her, pretend to have the strength she does. But I can only be Sydney, who's hard and tough on the outside, but pure mush on the inside. "No," I whisper.
"Why not?"
"Because you make me hot." I wince, because while it's what he wants to hear, it isn't too far from the truth. I can't say I'm not enjoying what he's doing to me.
He laughs and runs a hand through my hair, his fingers teasing the wet strands. He shifts against me, so something hard presses against my thigh. That can't be what I think it is. . .and it's not. Because it's cold and sleek against my skin. It's Sark's gun, and I have perfect access to it. He's so absorbed in me that I doubt he realizes his gun is exposed.
I could take it. I could take it and press it to his temple, pull the trigger and end it now. No deal about Vaughn and Sloane; no more surprise attacks when I'm after Rambaldi devices. I could eliminate Sark forever. Rather, Agent Bristow could. But I'm not Agent Bristow anymore. I'm Sydney, and she couldn't kill someone if her life depended on it. Well, maybe she could in self-defense, but not now, not like this. Because as much as I don't like Sark, he isn't threatening me, my life isn't in danger. And what he's doing isn't that unpleasant.
His fingers are hot against my skin, his touch gentle. He strokes my chin, turns my face so our eyes lock again. "It's been a pleasure, Agent Bristow. I look forward to working with you."
And like that he's gone, before I can process what he's said. I growl as I rise to my feet, the opportunity gone. I glare at the people who bring me towels and clothes, stare solemnly out the window as my father and I fly back to LA. Agent Bristow might be back in control now, but for that brief moment when I had the chance to kill Sark, she wasn't there. And without Agent Bristow, Sydney is as much as useless.
~ * ~
I once said I'm the best at compartmentalizing who I am, separating what I feel from what I have to do, and I am the best--when I'm not myself. But when I am myself, when I'm letting the real me, Sydney, feel all the things only Agent Bristow feels, I can say it's for the best, that it's a necessary evil, but I don't know how if I'll survive it. Because once Sydney has felt what Agent Bristow feels, done what she's had to do, how can I ever go back to the person I am? How can I ever separate the two, when the girl I try so hard to protect has been exposed to what I hate the most?
I haven't been the same since and I'm not sure I'll ever be the same again. But I know I can survive it. The next time I'm stripped bare, the next time Sydney takes control, I'll know how to react. It won't be easy, and the outcome probably won't be what I want, but I know Sydney can come out whole. My life takes a lot from me: my freedom, my choices, my independence, but they can't take Sydney. The can own Agent Bristow, shape her, mold her, make her theirs, but the girl inside, Sydney, will always be mine. And in the end, that's good enough.
~ * ~
Please, please, please respond!
This is my first "Alias" fic, although I've written for other categories; I'm still bitter that my music fic was taken off the board. Anyway, please let me know what you think. I hope you enjoy! (and please don't hate me for including a Jennifer Love Hewitt song. I tried to avoid it, but the words just fit too well.)
~ * ~
"And I feel bare naked
And I just can't take it
I'm getting jaded
No, I just can't fake it anymore
'Cause I'm bare naked
And I know life's what you make it
Wish I could float away
To some other day"
- "Barenaked," Jennifer Love Hewitt
~ * ~
Missions are a tricky business. They require me to use skills I don't want to possess, think in ways I wish I couldn't. I have to harden my heart and sharpen my mind and lose all the traits that make me human. Traits like compassion, sympathy, understanding. In their place I substitute determination, aggression, callousness. It's not something most people can do; it's not something I'm proud of. But it's something I can't avoid, not if I want to survive in my world.
Will asked me about it last week, how I can live a life as two people, because for the life of him, he can't understand how the Sydney he loves so dearly can be a deadly spy. I didn't know how to explain it to him. I still don't think I can, but it made me think. I've never been comfortable with living a double life, lying to the people I care about, but lately I've become more accustomed to it. It doesn't mean I hate it any less, just that I'm learning to live with it.
And the more I thought about Will's question, the more I began to analyze the state of my life, my choices. I don't know how a girl named Sydney can evolve in to Agent Bristow, ass-kicking, crime-fighting, super-spy. I don't know what gives me the ability to compartmentalize my feelings, to lock away all that makes me a living, breathing, loving woman. But I can try and guess, and for a woman used to living without the things she truly wants, a guess has to be good enough.
~ * ~
I think, of all the things I do for my job, I like the disguises best. It's like playing dress up, creating a different character for every mission. I get to learn a new language, wear a fancy costume, pretend I'm someone else living a far more normal life. I've been a vixen, a princess, even a Southern belle. I've worn leather and lace and silk that reveals more then it covers. I've been a loving daughter and a saucy Brit and a world-renown doctor. I've been everything but Sydney, everything except the real me.
I think it's the dresses, the make up, the wigs--everything that helps me become the characters I play, that let me do the things I do. Because no one I've killed or stolen from--none of them have seen the real me. They've seen blond curls and smoky eyes, but never the woman underneath. My god, they don't even know what I really look like. When I'm wearing leather catsuits and silk dresses, when my hair is a color I wasn't born with, I can become someone else. I can pretend I'm someone else, pretend I'm capable of doing the things I hate and go through with them. Sydney couldn't arrange a man's murder--but Agent Bristow can. Wearing clothes that aren't mine, pretending to be someone I'm not, I can be anyone, do anything. I don't worry about my morals or my conscience when I'm doing my job. I can hide behind the wigs and dresses and bug-killing lipsticks, and find strength to do things I never thought possible--like have a man killed in cold blood.
When I'm without my disguises, when my hair is brown and my eyes doe-eyed, all that makes me Agent Bristow disappears. Because Agent Bristow only exists when I'm wearing a costume, assuming a role, playing a part that isn't really mine. Without the props, Agent Bristow can't exist and all that's left is Sydney, daughter, friend, lover. . .but never spy. And Sydney can't hide who she is; she can't be what Agent Bristow becomes.
~ * ~
Sark knew it. He knew I was crumbling and he hit me where it hurt the most. When he turned the sprinklers on and let the chemicals eat at my suit, at the façade Agent Bristow wore, he knew he'd won. When he cornered me, made me make a deal with the devil, he knew it wasn't Agent Bristow he was dealing with, but Sydney. He knew he might not be able to beat Agent Bristow, but he knew Sydney didn't stand a chance against him. He watched me, from his perch in the observation room, his lips curved in a smirk, and gave me his terms. I wonder if Agent Bristow would have turned him down, but Sydney couldn't. Because Sydney has a heart, she has a soul, and she has a conscience. Sydney can't kill men in cold blood, even if Agent Bristow can.
That night, I felt what it was like for Sydney to be trapped in Agent Bristow's body. I felt the pull of emotions, the tug of war over right and wrong. I felt her mind freeze; felt her heart clench; felt everything I struggle so hard to hide when I'm Agent Bristow.
When I stood there under the chemicals, my skin stripped of the fancy clothes and silky wigs, for the first time I felt alone. And for the first time I felt stripped bare, because without the costumes I needed to play my role, I couldn't be Agent Bristow--and I needed to be Agent Bristow that night, in order to save Vaughn. . .in order to save myself. Because I knew if I crumbled under pressure, if I didn't come through for Vaughn, I would never forgive myself--and I wasn't sure I could life like that.
~ * ~
Sark didn't make it any easier. I'll never forget standing under the water that night, feeling his eyes on me as the water pounded the chemicals off my skin. His eyes never left mine the entire time, a pair of blue locked with a set of brown. He saw a woman no one has ever seen, not even Vaughn. He saw Sydney, bare to her soul, without the luxury of clothes or wigs or make up to shield who she really is. He saw the lost daughter, the lonely lover, the scared little girl that no one else sees. He saw a pair of brown eyes and wet dark hair and a quivering mouth. He saw me completely defenseless, saw me without the guns and leather and gadgets I hide behind. When he looked in my eyes he saw only Sydney, without a trace of Agent Bristow lurking in their dark depths.
It scared me to death, being that vulnerable, that exposed, in front of someone so dangerous. But I think it was his reaction that scared me more.
I thought he'd take advantage of the situation, how he had me naked and alone with his eyes on me. But he surprised me, like he's done so many times before.
Our deal was done; I'd made my choice. I'd agreed to his terms and sealed my fate along the way. He didn't need to do anything else but let me go--but he did anyway. He shooed away the guards, the technicians, everyone in the room, until it was just us. He circled me, like a hunter circling his prey, his eyes still on me. I was wet and cold and fighting so hard to stay in control. I had to be Agent Bristow, but Sydney was pulling at me, fighting to come out; I didn't know how much longer I could keep her at bay, and once she was out, I was lost.
"What do you want?" I hissed, partly from annoyance and partly from cold; it could have also been from embarrassment, but I refused to let him see that he got to me. He eyed me up and down, his eyes tracing a path up my naked body. I resisted crossing my arms over my breasts or crossing my legs. Instead I straightened my posture and steeled my eyes. Ah, that's better; no trace of Sydney in sight, only Agent Bristow.
He continued his appraisal, his eyes fixing on my bare breasts. "What makes you think I want something?"
"You always want something." I know I shouldn't be warm, not with cold air blowing steadily across my wet skin, but I am. Sark's eyes are hot and hooded and my skin is warm everywhere they look.
He looks up so his eyes meet mine. "What if I said I only want the pleasure of your company?"
"I'd say you're a liar."
"Ah, but I always keep my promises. I said we'd work together, didn't I?" A smile quirks his mouth and his gaze moves lower, this time fastening on my mouth. His cell phone rings, he turns to answer it, and I decide it's time to go. I take off at a run, trying to edge past him to the door, but he's too fast. He grabs me as I rush by, pulling me towards him. The force of his movement causes us to slip on the slick floor and we collapse in a heap, his body pressing mine against the cold tile.
"Going somewhere, Agent Bristow?" he asks, his breath warm against my cheeks. I look up and into his blue eyes. They sparkle with amusement as a slow smile curves his mouth. "You didn't think I'd let you leave without saying goodbye, did you?"
It's hard to speak with his weight pressing against me, his hard muscles fitting perfectly against my curves, his mouth only a scant inch from mine. "I was bored. And cold."
He laughs and runs a hand down bare side. "You're not cold now are you? Tell me, Sydney."
Why can't he call me Agent Bristow? At least with her name, I can pretend to be her, pretend to have the strength she does. But I can only be Sydney, who's hard and tough on the outside, but pure mush on the inside. "No," I whisper.
"Why not?"
"Because you make me hot." I wince, because while it's what he wants to hear, it isn't too far from the truth. I can't say I'm not enjoying what he's doing to me.
He laughs and runs a hand through my hair, his fingers teasing the wet strands. He shifts against me, so something hard presses against my thigh. That can't be what I think it is. . .and it's not. Because it's cold and sleek against my skin. It's Sark's gun, and I have perfect access to it. He's so absorbed in me that I doubt he realizes his gun is exposed.
I could take it. I could take it and press it to his temple, pull the trigger and end it now. No deal about Vaughn and Sloane; no more surprise attacks when I'm after Rambaldi devices. I could eliminate Sark forever. Rather, Agent Bristow could. But I'm not Agent Bristow anymore. I'm Sydney, and she couldn't kill someone if her life depended on it. Well, maybe she could in self-defense, but not now, not like this. Because as much as I don't like Sark, he isn't threatening me, my life isn't in danger. And what he's doing isn't that unpleasant.
His fingers are hot against my skin, his touch gentle. He strokes my chin, turns my face so our eyes lock again. "It's been a pleasure, Agent Bristow. I look forward to working with you."
And like that he's gone, before I can process what he's said. I growl as I rise to my feet, the opportunity gone. I glare at the people who bring me towels and clothes, stare solemnly out the window as my father and I fly back to LA. Agent Bristow might be back in control now, but for that brief moment when I had the chance to kill Sark, she wasn't there. And without Agent Bristow, Sydney is as much as useless.
~ * ~
I once said I'm the best at compartmentalizing who I am, separating what I feel from what I have to do, and I am the best--when I'm not myself. But when I am myself, when I'm letting the real me, Sydney, feel all the things only Agent Bristow feels, I can say it's for the best, that it's a necessary evil, but I don't know how if I'll survive it. Because once Sydney has felt what Agent Bristow feels, done what she's had to do, how can I ever go back to the person I am? How can I ever separate the two, when the girl I try so hard to protect has been exposed to what I hate the most?
I haven't been the same since and I'm not sure I'll ever be the same again. But I know I can survive it. The next time I'm stripped bare, the next time Sydney takes control, I'll know how to react. It won't be easy, and the outcome probably won't be what I want, but I know Sydney can come out whole. My life takes a lot from me: my freedom, my choices, my independence, but they can't take Sydney. The can own Agent Bristow, shape her, mold her, make her theirs, but the girl inside, Sydney, will always be mine. And in the end, that's good enough.
~ * ~
Please, please, please respond!