Author's notes: Wow, I never thought anyone would like this one. You guys
make me so happy - especially when you keep guessing at who it is. I can't
tell you; that takes out all the fun. I mean, seriously, I admitted that
this was all about Marshall, you'd quit reading! :P
Chapter 3: Let me help you
Don't fight the feeling, relax Oh child, the knots in your back 'Cause you've been holding on I can only feel you when you're reaching out I'll talk you through memories Just keep breathing with me It's time to hold my hand And walk into the revolution
~Robbie Williams
One of my greatest pleasures in our simple life together is merely watching her; despite all that has happened, her gentle grace still remains. There is never a moment when she isn't beautiful, yet she will say differently. She twists her hair up into a loose bun, allowing a few strands to fall against her cheeks; her hands complete such a simple task as though part of their usual routine, but her facial expression reveals that she is again lost in a memory. Her eyes gaze off to an undefined point, and she bites her lower lip as though struggling to remember every detail that surrounds her so suddenly. "Penny for your thoughts, dear," I say, hoping to interrupt her before the dreadful memories reveal themselves to her.
My voice apparently registers in her mind, for she slowly shakes her head as if to dismiss her thoughts. "They aren't worth that much," she replies with the far-off gaze still in her eyes.
"Then I guess you aren't thinking of me," I say, to which she laughs; her laughter is such a rare beauty these days, it seems. One day, I remind myself, her laughter will echo down the hallways, and her smile will again outshine the sun. Tragically, that day isn't today, for again her expression contorts into one caused by the pain of reliving the past.
I slowly cross the room and sit beside her on the couch; as I move to put my arm around her, she shakes her head and escapes my grasp. I stare at her quizzically as she gently rests her hand against my cheek and says, "No, I want to help you."
"Help me?" I ask, peering into her orbs desperate to know the thoughts that race through my angel's mind.
"You do so much for me and nearly nothing for yourself. You never sleep; you barely eat," she says, gently tracing her fingers along the faint circles that seemed to permanently dwell under my eyes. Slowly her gentle touch graces my neck and her expression contorts again, "and you're so tense."
"Sydney, I'm-" I start to say, but she places a finger to my lips and gently smiles; I can't argue with that smile. With her delicate grace, she slips behind me on the couch like a kitten longing for the most difficult place to slip into; she sits upon her knees, and I can feel the fallen strands of her hair brushing against my neck just slightly. As her fingers touch the base of my neck, I mumble incoherently, and she laughs faintly.
Her hands gently massage my tense muscles; her touch is so soft yet speaks so loud. In each movement, she expresses a different thought; she's perfect in every way, yet she doesn't know. She begins to hum a faint, haunting melody, and before I can stop myself, I ask, "What song is that?"
"A lullaby that my," she begins to explain, but she pauses for a moment; she trembles slightly, and I suddenly realize my mistake: I let another memory take her over, "father used to sing to me. It was the only thing to get me to sleep sometimes."
She wraps her arms around me and leans her head against my back so innocently. She sighs and whispers, "I don't understand why daddy killed him."
"No one does, dear," I whisper back as gently as I can without my hatred for her father seeping into my words. It was the day Jack Bristow snapped and destroyed Sydney's very existence. I turn around just slightly, and she collapses into my arms just as she did that day. Tears stream down her cheeks as she trembles.
"I don't understand. He was always so protective of me, but. he never should have." she mumbles through her sobs.
"Shh, Sydney," I whisper, rocking her gently in my arms, "no one will hurt you again."
Thunder shakes the window panes as my hatred toward Jack Bristow seethes within my soul; he destroyed an innocent, beautiful angel and claimed to be doing so out of pure love and devotion. He has ruined my angel's life; since birth, he was scheming for ways to form her into his prodigy while treating her with fatherly disregard. He only cared for her when it was convenient; he put her through so much yet claimed to be doing so because as the old adage says "father knows best." Whenever her attention drifted away or whenever she caught glimpses of the life she could have had, he would pull upon the leash he had bound her with for all these years; however, when his attention wasn't focused upon Sydney, she became infatuated with someone who returned the trapped feelings. She drifted further away until she had nearly found bliss, but Jack Bristow snatched her leash so hard that it severed.
As she trembles in my arms, I know it was more than just the metaphorical leash that was severed that day; her entire life was ripped apart. My wish is to see what happened that day through her eyes; I want to know every horrid, wretched feeling that overwhelmed her to the point of trauma, for only then can I truly mend her broken wings.
"I wanted to help you," she whispers, sniffling softly, "but. no matter what I do, everything ends up like this."
"This is part of the trauma, dear, it won't last forever. I'm going to get you through this; I believe in you even when you don't," I whisper back, kissing her forehead.
"But what if it does last forever?" she asks as her piercing gaze locks with mine. "Death follows me no matter where I go. I've tried so hard to save the world, but I've killed everyone I loved."
"Sydney." I whispered.
"I don't want to lose you; I can't lose you. You gave me some semblance of a life when I had no reason to live, but I can't ever repay you. I try-and-try, and it always ends up like this," she says as tears roll down her cheeks again. "I love you more than anything I've ever known, but I can't ever show it the way I want to."
As she rests in my arms again, I can't honestly say that I wish he had lived that day. I hate Jack Bristow for how he destroyed my angel, yet the fact that she sits here in my arms and tells me how much she loves me makes me wonder where that hatred should truly lie. The love of her life was murdered in cold blood, and I'm sitting here enjoying the rewards of an unfortunate circumstance. I tell myself we would have ended up like this eventually, but if that day hadn't occurred exactly as it did, Sydney Bristow and I would not be in a bittersweet romance. We would have continued about our so-called normal lives of danger and deceit, yet we would remain true to our protocol.
If that day had not come and gone, I wouldn't know love or compassion. I would still be half a man without a soul doomed to struggle against life's restraints alone. My bliss came at her expense, but she won't admit it; perhaps that is why the trauma plagues her still: guilt. Fate plays a sick game; I sit here with an angel in my arms and feel as though I'm drenched in guilt.
Chapter 3: Let me help you
Don't fight the feeling, relax Oh child, the knots in your back 'Cause you've been holding on I can only feel you when you're reaching out I'll talk you through memories Just keep breathing with me It's time to hold my hand And walk into the revolution
~Robbie Williams
One of my greatest pleasures in our simple life together is merely watching her; despite all that has happened, her gentle grace still remains. There is never a moment when she isn't beautiful, yet she will say differently. She twists her hair up into a loose bun, allowing a few strands to fall against her cheeks; her hands complete such a simple task as though part of their usual routine, but her facial expression reveals that she is again lost in a memory. Her eyes gaze off to an undefined point, and she bites her lower lip as though struggling to remember every detail that surrounds her so suddenly. "Penny for your thoughts, dear," I say, hoping to interrupt her before the dreadful memories reveal themselves to her.
My voice apparently registers in her mind, for she slowly shakes her head as if to dismiss her thoughts. "They aren't worth that much," she replies with the far-off gaze still in her eyes.
"Then I guess you aren't thinking of me," I say, to which she laughs; her laughter is such a rare beauty these days, it seems. One day, I remind myself, her laughter will echo down the hallways, and her smile will again outshine the sun. Tragically, that day isn't today, for again her expression contorts into one caused by the pain of reliving the past.
I slowly cross the room and sit beside her on the couch; as I move to put my arm around her, she shakes her head and escapes my grasp. I stare at her quizzically as she gently rests her hand against my cheek and says, "No, I want to help you."
"Help me?" I ask, peering into her orbs desperate to know the thoughts that race through my angel's mind.
"You do so much for me and nearly nothing for yourself. You never sleep; you barely eat," she says, gently tracing her fingers along the faint circles that seemed to permanently dwell under my eyes. Slowly her gentle touch graces my neck and her expression contorts again, "and you're so tense."
"Sydney, I'm-" I start to say, but she places a finger to my lips and gently smiles; I can't argue with that smile. With her delicate grace, she slips behind me on the couch like a kitten longing for the most difficult place to slip into; she sits upon her knees, and I can feel the fallen strands of her hair brushing against my neck just slightly. As her fingers touch the base of my neck, I mumble incoherently, and she laughs faintly.
Her hands gently massage my tense muscles; her touch is so soft yet speaks so loud. In each movement, she expresses a different thought; she's perfect in every way, yet she doesn't know. She begins to hum a faint, haunting melody, and before I can stop myself, I ask, "What song is that?"
"A lullaby that my," she begins to explain, but she pauses for a moment; she trembles slightly, and I suddenly realize my mistake: I let another memory take her over, "father used to sing to me. It was the only thing to get me to sleep sometimes."
She wraps her arms around me and leans her head against my back so innocently. She sighs and whispers, "I don't understand why daddy killed him."
"No one does, dear," I whisper back as gently as I can without my hatred for her father seeping into my words. It was the day Jack Bristow snapped and destroyed Sydney's very existence. I turn around just slightly, and she collapses into my arms just as she did that day. Tears stream down her cheeks as she trembles.
"I don't understand. He was always so protective of me, but. he never should have." she mumbles through her sobs.
"Shh, Sydney," I whisper, rocking her gently in my arms, "no one will hurt you again."
Thunder shakes the window panes as my hatred toward Jack Bristow seethes within my soul; he destroyed an innocent, beautiful angel and claimed to be doing so out of pure love and devotion. He has ruined my angel's life; since birth, he was scheming for ways to form her into his prodigy while treating her with fatherly disregard. He only cared for her when it was convenient; he put her through so much yet claimed to be doing so because as the old adage says "father knows best." Whenever her attention drifted away or whenever she caught glimpses of the life she could have had, he would pull upon the leash he had bound her with for all these years; however, when his attention wasn't focused upon Sydney, she became infatuated with someone who returned the trapped feelings. She drifted further away until she had nearly found bliss, but Jack Bristow snatched her leash so hard that it severed.
As she trembles in my arms, I know it was more than just the metaphorical leash that was severed that day; her entire life was ripped apart. My wish is to see what happened that day through her eyes; I want to know every horrid, wretched feeling that overwhelmed her to the point of trauma, for only then can I truly mend her broken wings.
"I wanted to help you," she whispers, sniffling softly, "but. no matter what I do, everything ends up like this."
"This is part of the trauma, dear, it won't last forever. I'm going to get you through this; I believe in you even when you don't," I whisper back, kissing her forehead.
"But what if it does last forever?" she asks as her piercing gaze locks with mine. "Death follows me no matter where I go. I've tried so hard to save the world, but I've killed everyone I loved."
"Sydney." I whispered.
"I don't want to lose you; I can't lose you. You gave me some semblance of a life when I had no reason to live, but I can't ever repay you. I try-and-try, and it always ends up like this," she says as tears roll down her cheeks again. "I love you more than anything I've ever known, but I can't ever show it the way I want to."
As she rests in my arms again, I can't honestly say that I wish he had lived that day. I hate Jack Bristow for how he destroyed my angel, yet the fact that she sits here in my arms and tells me how much she loves me makes me wonder where that hatred should truly lie. The love of her life was murdered in cold blood, and I'm sitting here enjoying the rewards of an unfortunate circumstance. I tell myself we would have ended up like this eventually, but if that day hadn't occurred exactly as it did, Sydney Bristow and I would not be in a bittersweet romance. We would have continued about our so-called normal lives of danger and deceit, yet we would remain true to our protocol.
If that day had not come and gone, I wouldn't know love or compassion. I would still be half a man without a soul doomed to struggle against life's restraints alone. My bliss came at her expense, but she won't admit it; perhaps that is why the trauma plagues her still: guilt. Fate plays a sick game; I sit here with an angel in my arms and feel as though I'm drenched in guilt.