Disclaimer: Alias is owned by ABC and Touchstone, and was created by the brilliant JJ Abrams and Bad Robot Productions.
AN: Well, here's part 4…I'm so sorry it took me so long! I've been busy studying for exams, but they'll be over on Friday so I promise I'll update more often starting at the end of the week! Also, thanks to Charity, my wonderful beta, for putting up with my (many) stupid mistakes!
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"Uh..." I don't know what to say.
I am shocked into silence. Take Elise? I haven't been alone with a kid since I was fifteen, babysitting the annoying kid across of the street. And even then it was only for two hours, while his mom went to her pottery class.
I look at you, the hope shining in your rich brown eyes. You haven't looked at me like this since…No, you never have.
"Will," you begin, "I know this is so much to ask- "
"Does she like Kraft Dinner?" I interrupt you, the words flying out of my mouth so suddenly that I don't have time to realize what exactly I'm getting myself into.
"Are you sure?" A slow smile forms on your lips…the same smile that has haunted me for years; the one I could never resist.
"I can't say I'm good with kids, but I can try…" I stop as your arms wrap around me.
"Thank you." Your whisper echoes in the silence of the dark alley.
"You're welcome," I reply.
A frown pulls at my face, and I can't stop myself from asking the question that burns my mind.
"Will I see you again?"
"I'll be there for the drop-off," you reply.
"But how will I know when that is? Are you just going to drop her on my doorstep or something?"
My question is stupid, but my curiosity always seems to get the best of me.
"I'll be in touch," you smile slightly.
"Take care," I say, a relieved smile brightening my face.
"You should go," you instruct me.
Your words are laced with solemnity, and a few tears skate down your cheek as you turn away from me. I am still for a moment, watching your shoulders shake slightly from sadness and cold. For a second I consider comforting you, but your words stop me.
"I'll be fine, Will. Go home."
It takes effort to keep myself from disclosing that I have no home. I have no one in my life, not since it fell apart and I had no one to help me pick up the pieces. Sighing, I walk away.
The walk home is long, and shadows seem to follow me as I hurry down the deserted streets. A sick fear rises in my stomach as I remember that stepping into my house and locking the door behind me won't even alleviate the panic that is mounting in my body. The darkness has become my enemy, and I am terrified that it will swallow me whole.
How can a guy like me care for a kid? I mean, really. I can't walk down the street without glancing over my shoulder five times a block, or sleep a full night without jarring awake from a vivid nightmare. What was I thinking?
I push my terror aside to make room for the new thoughts that drown my mind. Trust has become a forgotten concept, or at least it was until today. I have to make myself strong, and brave. I force myself to scrape up all the bits of courage that have been strewn into the corners of my mind. I have to find the hero that died in that chair in Taipei.
Hours later I am sitting at my kitchen table, staring at my small house. The lights are off, and a sliver of moonlight cuts into the darkness, casting a thread of light across the scarred wooden table. My eyes scan the practically bare rooms, observing the outlines of old worn furniture.
I pause on the fake Picasso painting that hangs on a peeling white wall. It's hard to tell by simply looking, but a safe delves into the wall behind the so-called art. I have never liked Picasso, but with a new life comes a new personality, and re-inventing yourself is easier when you become completely different from who you really are. It turns into a game, a lesson in getting to know the person you are leaving behind.
The safe contains the remaining fragments of my old life. The life of a guy named Will Tippin, a reporter, and devoted friend. That life spiraled down the drain, leaving behind a few pictures of friends and family, a few articles, and the memory of a life I would give my life to take back. The tangible specks that remain are stored behind a complex combination of numbers, never to be seen again. The simple knowledge of their existence keeps me sane.
It is fifteen long hours before I am contacted. The request for a meeting comes in the form of a package, delivered straight to my door.
"Andrew Carson?" The mailman asks as I drag open the front door, still dressed in the clothes I was wearing the night before.
"Yeah," I reply hesitantly.
"Package for you," he shoves a package at me gruffly.
"Thanks," I answer, signing the slip of paper he hands me.
I take the package inside and open it with shaking hands. A flat cardboard box slides out of the yellowish wrapping, landing with a soft thud of my kitchen table. I stare at it, contemplating the choice that lies before me – once I open it, I will never be able to go back. I open the box carefully, to find a single piece of paper.
Go to Casey's Craft Corner this afternoon at five o'clock. Introduce yourself to the woman at the cash as David Klein. Casey will take you into the back room, where we will be waiting.
I glance at my Ikea clock, the metallic hands pointing to ten o'clock in the morning. I lean back in my chair, sighing and stretching the stiffness out of my body. Despite the hours I spent lying in bed, still clothed, sleep betrayed once again. I glance at the mess that fills my house, and pull myself out of my chair to get some cleaning done. Hopefully the litter of junk will distract for a while.
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The back room reeks of glue and dust. Craft supplies are heaped hazardously on unstable shelving units, and half-finished artwork clutters the long counters. It is a poorly ventilated mess, and the fluorescent lighting makes my head spin.
I lean on a counter to steady myself. The clock on the wall ticks loudly as the seconds drag by. It is the same cheap clock that hung on the walls of my primary school classrooms, waiting for the right moment to clatter to the floor.
You arrive at ten past five, entering through a back door. You smile at me, and I am so caught up in the sadness in your eyes that it takes me a moment to notice the man standing behind you, and the young girl clinging desperately to his neck.
"I'm Michael," he extends his free hand, shifting the girl in his arms.
"It's nice to meet you," I reply, forcing the words to form on my lips.
His smile is warm, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. Carefully he places the girl on the floor, and she hides behind your leg.
"Elise, honey, this is Andrew." Your voice is gentle and soothing, and Elise clutches you as she looks up at me with big hazel eyes.
She is the perfect combination of you and Michael. She has her father's light brown hair, and her eyes are a warm hazel – a combination of yours and her father's. Small dimples are stamped into her cheeks.
"Hi," I smile at her, "I'm Andrew."
She looks at Michael, then at you, and then back up at me. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear – a habit she undoubtedly picked up from you – and steps forward.
"Can I call you Andy?" she asks after a second.
"You can call me whatever you want."
"Mommy says you're a very nice man, and you're gonna take good care of me," Elise continues.
"I'll do my best," I offer her another smile, and she smiles back shyly.
"Here's a bag with her clothes, and another with toys, toiletries, that kind of thing." Michael hands me two bags.
"And this is a list of instructions. Routines, habits, stuff you need to know." You add, handing me a piece of paper.
I nod, glancing down at the extensive list.
"Our cell phone numbers are on there, in case of an emergency." Michael adds as casually as possible, but the fear in his voice shines through, blinding in the already bright room.
You slip your hand into his, and I can't help noticing the way his thumb automatically begins to massage the back of your hand, gentle and reassuring. You lean your head against his shoulder, a silent cry for comfort through the chaos and pain. Michael slides an arm around your shoulder instinctively, tears forming in your eyes as you both look down at your daughter for what could possibly be the last time.
"We don't know how long…" You choke, and aren't able to get the rest of the sentence out without breaking down.
"I understand," I try to convince you, at the same time knowing very well that nothing I can say will even come close to easing any of the pain that you feel.
Michael is the first to say goodbye. He scoops his daughter into his arms, holding her against him tightly. The rub noses, and Elise grins at him. She seems unaware of the sadness, the separation that looms in the near future. But from the way she buries her face in his neck, tears filling her eyes as she pulls away, I can tell she is feeling the same pain as her heartbroken parents.
"Be good, okay, mon ange?" he switches to his mother tongue instinctively, worry lines creasing his forehead as he murmurs into her hair.
"I promise," she whispers back.
You take her carefully from her father's arms, placing her on the floor in front of you. You crouch down so that you match her height, and she immediately stretches onto the tips of her toes and grins.
"I'm almost bigger than you," she beams.
"Come here, sweetheart," you say, pulling her into a hug.
You kiss her forehead and push a few strands of light brown hair out of her eyes.
"Promise something?"
"Anything," is your immediate, confident reply.
"Come back for me."
Elise's words are enough to break your stubborn composure. Tears slide down your cheeks, and you quickly brush them away.
"I promise."
With one last hug, you turn and follow Michael towards the door.
"You two leave first." Michael instructs, holding the back door open for us.
I take Elise's hand in one of mine, and her bags in the other. You squeeze my shoulder as I step past you, thank me one last time, and place a rag doll in Elise's empty hand.
"She never goes anywhere without it," Michael explains, nodding towards the doll and ruffling his daughter's hair as she walks by.
"Take care," I say, glancing back at you as Elise and I step into the grey evening.
I can feel your eyes on us as we walk away, and I continuously tell myself that I am doing the right thing.
Elise smiles up at me as we stop on a street corner to wait for the light to change. I am too busy trying to distract Elise with a stupid joke ("Why did the chicken cross the road?" – the only one that comes to mind immediately) to detect the black Sedan across the street, and the man behind the wheel watching at us closely.
"Tippin has the kid. I'm on their trail." He mutters, but I am too far away to hear.