Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, and the quotes before each section are from the lovely poem "Stepping Backward" by Adrienne Rich.
* * *
"You asked me once, and I could give no answer,
how far dare we throw off the daily ruse,
official treacheries of face and name,
have out our true identity?"
He had harbored few delusions about the nature and depth of their association. What she opened herself long enough to show him was always calculated, never spontaneous. However, he acknowledged, you cannot exploit the willing. And he had been willing, since day one, as well as eager, probably to his detriment. He had been willing and eager to believe that something more complex than late-night visits and surreptitious glances might one day develop between them, although he had never allowed his countenance to betray this buried hope, except maybe once or twice during the evening's darkest hour.
He had allowed her to believe he was equally as detached as was she. Perhaps that had been a mistake.
No matter. It was too late now to remedy any past mistakes.
"Mr. Sark," Sloane repeated, his irritation clearly rising. "Do you understand what I'm asking you to do?"
He nodded, and Sloane took that to be a gesture indicating agreement as well as understanding.
"Good. 24 hours," he said impassively, and Sark turned to leave.
The fact was, he wouldn't have minded doing the job, or at least the prospect of it, provided what Sloane told him was true. Being ordered to actually carry out the quiet revenge fantasy blooming deep within his mind, however, was another matter entirely. He was not known for losing his nerve; if his nerve was to be lost in this particular situation, he would have to be damn careful to cover up that fact if he didn't want to be buried beside her.
* * *
"It takes a late and slowly blooming wisdom
to learn that those we marked infallible
are tragi-comic stumblers like ourselves.
The knowledge breeds reserve."
He might have been angrier about her deception if he hadn't been expecting it from the day the most recent round began. But he had realized from the beginning that there was something somehow less sadistic behind her eyes when she returned this time. Pathetically, it had taken him this long to figure out the cause.
He turned off the engine. For a long time, he sat in the car and counted his bullets, again and again, just in case, until he found the will to go inside, put an end to this chapter for once and for all.
She barely glanced up when he entered, but when she did she gave a little smile that died quickly after his expression failed to change. Clearly, she had also been waiting for this day to arrive. She snapped the laptop shut and was about to ask a question or launch an accusation. He brought his index finger to his lips and maintained eye contact; she got the message and walked directly past him out to the car.
He drove for an hour before either of them spoke. From time to time he would look over at her, careful to notice any signs of nervousness or mistrust. Instead she was perfectly at ease, except that her breathing was quick and shallow. He was almost amused by the idea that she might be afraid of him before it occurred to him that perhaps she was merely dreading what she knew she must do to him.
* * *
"only lovers--
and once in a while two with the grace of lovers--
unlearn that clumsiness of rare intrusion
and let each other freely come and go."
"So here we are," she said, to fill up the silence.
"You know what this is about." He spoke so quietly that in the ensuing silence he couldn't be sure he had actually spoken at all.
"Yes."
"You were collaborating with him all along."
He stared straight ahead; this time he could feel her eyes on him, searching for some sign of nervousness or mistrust.
"Are you going to ask why?"
"No." He had known from the beginning that he could never compete with the ghosts from her past, whether in the form of Jack Bristow or a hundred other men. He was merely her current diversion, a way to keep herself occupied during the downtime, to keep her henchman loyal. It helped to think that. He dwelled on every word, repeated the phrases in his head, and felt his anger rise.
No. Anger wouldn't get this job done properly. It was the wrong approach. He needed to be cold, calculating, unfeeling, emotionless; he needed to be everything he had always been.
But it was much easier to kill a target toward whom he felt nothing.
He could not lose his nerve.
"You can't tell me you're surprised."
"I'm not."
"Do you want to talk about it?" Oh, now she was just playing with her prey, giving him a last chance to pretend this situation was normal before putting an end to everything.
"No." He got out of the car and slammed the door shut. After a moment, she did the same.
"I'm sorry," she said, and for once, he believed her.
* * *
"All we can confess of what we are
has in it the defeat of isolation--
if not our own, then someone's, anyway."
She followed him inside the low-rent motel room, and he considered it a sign of intense affection that she refrained from shooting him in the back.
"I still don't understand," she said.
"I don't want to carry out this mission," he explained. "And I don't believe you want to stop me from carrying it out successfully, either."
"He'll never go for it."
"Maybe you're right," he admitted. "At least we'll have tried."
She didn't respond, staring instead out the slit of open window peeking through where the curtains gapped open instead of meeting properly.
"You can't contact them," he pointed out.
She turned her gaze on him abruptly. "That's not what I was thinking," she said, in an uncharacteristically soft voice.
"I'll continue to work to achieve your objective, if that's what you're worried about."
That amused her. "No, not that, either." She paused. "I guess this is goodbye."
"I'll take care of everything here."
"I know you'll try." She smiled ruefully and gestured for him to come closer.
It was several hours before she left, and when she drove away, she was gone forever.
* * *
"Good-by to you whom I shall see tomorrow,
next year and when I'm fifty; still good-by.
this is the leave we never really take."
Some time later, he received a letter from his Aunt Therese. In it she wrote about her fabulous travels across Spain and Greece, and the modest charms of the home in which she'd settled near the border of Greece.
The letter touched him in a way nothing ever did anymore. He opened and closed it a thousand times in the first two days after receiving it, often tracing the letters with his fingers, trying to feel some connection to the warm hand that had originally drawn each word. It was not quite an invitation to join her; more a way to put him at ease regarding her fate.
She had waited a long time before breaking radio silence, long enough to ensure that no one would be suspicious. Printed neatly on the outside of the envelope was a return address. He wondered if she'd included it to encourage him to write her a letter from her favorite nephew, to tell her about his life now, to assure her that his foolish, ridiculous plan had worked.
And it had; he had found a woman around the right age, with hair and eyes the proper color, and if he lingered in the woman's presence an hour too long before going through with his mission, he felt even his missing lover could not have blamed him.
Sloane never questioned him. He explained that the explosion was purely accidental, and no one would have had a reason to suspect he was lying. He continued to serve the objectives of his employer.
Once in a while he would sit down and compose a few paragraphs to fold into an envelope and send across continents, but he never found the proper arrangement of words to convey exactly the right meaning.
He burned every draft.
After all, what purpose did it serve to dwell on any of this? She was gone, as good as dead, and for very good reason. She had betrayed him, used him, sold him out, but it didn't matter. He had been a willing accomplice. But even after everything that had transpired, he kept one eye open all the time, just waiting to hear familiar footsteps approaching from behind in every parking lot and alley in which he set foot. One day, after he had served his purpose in finishing what she started, she would return to kill him, kill Sloane, kill anyone who interfered with her quest to find her way back to her former husband's side.
If Sloane had asked him to take care of Jack Bristow, he would have, in a petulant, childish heartbeat. He would have regretted it later, to be certain, and if he ever sent that letter he would have a hard time delivering the news to her. But Sloane seemed to have his reasons for keeping Bristow alive, which remained mysterious.
He wondered if Bristow had received a letter from a mysterious aunt or long-lost cousin in the months after her death. But he tried not to dwell on that subject for very long, and generally came to avoid encountering father and daughter alike as often as possible.
Once, a few months after Aunt Therese's message arrived, he met Sydney Bristow quite by accident. She froze when she looked upon him, and he immediately thought: she knows everything now, she will tell me about all that I have done and I will not able to deny any of it, even if it is false.
Perhaps she perceived his terror upon meeting her so unexpectedly and discerned some shallow semblance of the reason. Instead of accusing him of any number of things she might accurately suggest he was responsible for, her eyes softened and she grasped his hand briefly. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I know you lost her, too."
And he caught himself thinking: look at the way she tries to stay guarded and fails. You could read every thought in one glance. She's almost like a purer version of the other; imagine the possibilities, starting fresh, starting anew.
No. His future did not lie in revisiting the past in new and creative ways.
He nodded brusquely. "Thank you," he said, and left both of the Bristow women far behind.
* * *
"You asked me once, and I could give no answer,
how far dare we throw off the daily ruse,
official treacheries of face and name,
have out our true identity?"
He had harbored few delusions about the nature and depth of their association. What she opened herself long enough to show him was always calculated, never spontaneous. However, he acknowledged, you cannot exploit the willing. And he had been willing, since day one, as well as eager, probably to his detriment. He had been willing and eager to believe that something more complex than late-night visits and surreptitious glances might one day develop between them, although he had never allowed his countenance to betray this buried hope, except maybe once or twice during the evening's darkest hour.
He had allowed her to believe he was equally as detached as was she. Perhaps that had been a mistake.
No matter. It was too late now to remedy any past mistakes.
"Mr. Sark," Sloane repeated, his irritation clearly rising. "Do you understand what I'm asking you to do?"
He nodded, and Sloane took that to be a gesture indicating agreement as well as understanding.
"Good. 24 hours," he said impassively, and Sark turned to leave.
The fact was, he wouldn't have minded doing the job, or at least the prospect of it, provided what Sloane told him was true. Being ordered to actually carry out the quiet revenge fantasy blooming deep within his mind, however, was another matter entirely. He was not known for losing his nerve; if his nerve was to be lost in this particular situation, he would have to be damn careful to cover up that fact if he didn't want to be buried beside her.
* * *
"It takes a late and slowly blooming wisdom
to learn that those we marked infallible
are tragi-comic stumblers like ourselves.
The knowledge breeds reserve."
He might have been angrier about her deception if he hadn't been expecting it from the day the most recent round began. But he had realized from the beginning that there was something somehow less sadistic behind her eyes when she returned this time. Pathetically, it had taken him this long to figure out the cause.
He turned off the engine. For a long time, he sat in the car and counted his bullets, again and again, just in case, until he found the will to go inside, put an end to this chapter for once and for all.
She barely glanced up when he entered, but when she did she gave a little smile that died quickly after his expression failed to change. Clearly, she had also been waiting for this day to arrive. She snapped the laptop shut and was about to ask a question or launch an accusation. He brought his index finger to his lips and maintained eye contact; she got the message and walked directly past him out to the car.
He drove for an hour before either of them spoke. From time to time he would look over at her, careful to notice any signs of nervousness or mistrust. Instead she was perfectly at ease, except that her breathing was quick and shallow. He was almost amused by the idea that she might be afraid of him before it occurred to him that perhaps she was merely dreading what she knew she must do to him.
* * *
"only lovers--
and once in a while two with the grace of lovers--
unlearn that clumsiness of rare intrusion
and let each other freely come and go."
"So here we are," she said, to fill up the silence.
"You know what this is about." He spoke so quietly that in the ensuing silence he couldn't be sure he had actually spoken at all.
"Yes."
"You were collaborating with him all along."
He stared straight ahead; this time he could feel her eyes on him, searching for some sign of nervousness or mistrust.
"Are you going to ask why?"
"No." He had known from the beginning that he could never compete with the ghosts from her past, whether in the form of Jack Bristow or a hundred other men. He was merely her current diversion, a way to keep herself occupied during the downtime, to keep her henchman loyal. It helped to think that. He dwelled on every word, repeated the phrases in his head, and felt his anger rise.
No. Anger wouldn't get this job done properly. It was the wrong approach. He needed to be cold, calculating, unfeeling, emotionless; he needed to be everything he had always been.
But it was much easier to kill a target toward whom he felt nothing.
He could not lose his nerve.
"You can't tell me you're surprised."
"I'm not."
"Do you want to talk about it?" Oh, now she was just playing with her prey, giving him a last chance to pretend this situation was normal before putting an end to everything.
"No." He got out of the car and slammed the door shut. After a moment, she did the same.
"I'm sorry," she said, and for once, he believed her.
* * *
"All we can confess of what we are
has in it the defeat of isolation--
if not our own, then someone's, anyway."
She followed him inside the low-rent motel room, and he considered it a sign of intense affection that she refrained from shooting him in the back.
"I still don't understand," she said.
"I don't want to carry out this mission," he explained. "And I don't believe you want to stop me from carrying it out successfully, either."
"He'll never go for it."
"Maybe you're right," he admitted. "At least we'll have tried."
She didn't respond, staring instead out the slit of open window peeking through where the curtains gapped open instead of meeting properly.
"You can't contact them," he pointed out.
She turned her gaze on him abruptly. "That's not what I was thinking," she said, in an uncharacteristically soft voice.
"I'll continue to work to achieve your objective, if that's what you're worried about."
That amused her. "No, not that, either." She paused. "I guess this is goodbye."
"I'll take care of everything here."
"I know you'll try." She smiled ruefully and gestured for him to come closer.
It was several hours before she left, and when she drove away, she was gone forever.
* * *
"Good-by to you whom I shall see tomorrow,
next year and when I'm fifty; still good-by.
this is the leave we never really take."
Some time later, he received a letter from his Aunt Therese. In it she wrote about her fabulous travels across Spain and Greece, and the modest charms of the home in which she'd settled near the border of Greece.
The letter touched him in a way nothing ever did anymore. He opened and closed it a thousand times in the first two days after receiving it, often tracing the letters with his fingers, trying to feel some connection to the warm hand that had originally drawn each word. It was not quite an invitation to join her; more a way to put him at ease regarding her fate.
She had waited a long time before breaking radio silence, long enough to ensure that no one would be suspicious. Printed neatly on the outside of the envelope was a return address. He wondered if she'd included it to encourage him to write her a letter from her favorite nephew, to tell her about his life now, to assure her that his foolish, ridiculous plan had worked.
And it had; he had found a woman around the right age, with hair and eyes the proper color, and if he lingered in the woman's presence an hour too long before going through with his mission, he felt even his missing lover could not have blamed him.
Sloane never questioned him. He explained that the explosion was purely accidental, and no one would have had a reason to suspect he was lying. He continued to serve the objectives of his employer.
Once in a while he would sit down and compose a few paragraphs to fold into an envelope and send across continents, but he never found the proper arrangement of words to convey exactly the right meaning.
He burned every draft.
After all, what purpose did it serve to dwell on any of this? She was gone, as good as dead, and for very good reason. She had betrayed him, used him, sold him out, but it didn't matter. He had been a willing accomplice. But even after everything that had transpired, he kept one eye open all the time, just waiting to hear familiar footsteps approaching from behind in every parking lot and alley in which he set foot. One day, after he had served his purpose in finishing what she started, she would return to kill him, kill Sloane, kill anyone who interfered with her quest to find her way back to her former husband's side.
If Sloane had asked him to take care of Jack Bristow, he would have, in a petulant, childish heartbeat. He would have regretted it later, to be certain, and if he ever sent that letter he would have a hard time delivering the news to her. But Sloane seemed to have his reasons for keeping Bristow alive, which remained mysterious.
He wondered if Bristow had received a letter from a mysterious aunt or long-lost cousin in the months after her death. But he tried not to dwell on that subject for very long, and generally came to avoid encountering father and daughter alike as often as possible.
Once, a few months after Aunt Therese's message arrived, he met Sydney Bristow quite by accident. She froze when she looked upon him, and he immediately thought: she knows everything now, she will tell me about all that I have done and I will not able to deny any of it, even if it is false.
Perhaps she perceived his terror upon meeting her so unexpectedly and discerned some shallow semblance of the reason. Instead of accusing him of any number of things she might accurately suggest he was responsible for, her eyes softened and she grasped his hand briefly. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I know you lost her, too."
And he caught himself thinking: look at the way she tries to stay guarded and fails. You could read every thought in one glance. She's almost like a purer version of the other; imagine the possibilities, starting fresh, starting anew.
No. His future did not lie in revisiting the past in new and creative ways.
He nodded brusquely. "Thank you," he said, and left both of the Bristow women far behind.