Author's Note/Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. Also, this has no connection to any previous stories I've written. Thanks for reading. :)
* * *
When he slept, briefly and not fitfully, he dreamt intermittently of her face as daylight began to break. She would regard him, perhaps even be somewhat surprised initially upon recognizing his face, and her features would slowly turn to stone. It was not that he was afraid of being frozen out; although he felt sure he would not enjoy that particular potential turn of the tables, his heartless persona did not often fall away to reveal hidden sentimentality where none existed. He would certainly feel nothing upon her rejection other than irritation. Not even with her, but with himself, for allowing this to happen.
He had been traveling for months now, always two steps behind, or two steps ahead, of his predictably elusive prey. With no ties to anyone, including his former employer, he had found little with which to occupy himself other than the pursuit of one final target.
The bloodbath in Austria had merely been an excuse for her to disappear; he recognized that now, although he had not at the time. The night before, she had given herself to him almost completely, saying the words he didn't realize he wanted to hear until they had already been said. She had not said 'goodbye' or 'I'm sorry'; she gave him no warning about what was to come beyond the barest details of the mission. Of course she had known he would be able to hold his own once things began to go "wrong," and so perhaps it was her idea of a gift, one last night together alone, blissfully ignorant. Perhaps this sort of deception was merely the closest to nurturing she would ever come.
At first, he had almost been too shell-shocked to hold a grudge. After all, she had ensured he would be spared, along with herself, even if they were not reunited after all was said and done. What more could he have asked? He knew he had always been a place-holder in her life, he knew; a surrogate son, a replacement lover, the only one who truly understood and respected the choices she had made. Sloane would pretend to understand, but he was always an outsider, and perhaps toward the end he had sensed that, made some ill-advised threats in her direction. Whatever brought it on, when the dust settled, she had left her former husband near to death on the battlefield; her collaborator, her daughter's lover, and many others in the crossfire were not so blessed. She was gone, presumed dead in an ill-timed explosion set by the enemy, but more likely alive and finally in possession of all that she ever really wanted.
And he had emerged unharmed and free.
So had her daughter, although she did not consider that a gift, and perhaps it wasn't intended to be.
Sydney Bristow had launched a one-woman search of her own, a fact of which he had been made aware by a few associates who had been loyal to his employer, once upon a time, back in the U.S.
He had certainly not expected to cross paths with her, but he did, in Liverpool. Later, he would be unable to explain exactly why he'd felt compelled to make the stop, but he had been traveling for some time without pausing to breathe. Something about the weather here matched his shade of melancholy, and the oppressive air fed his increasing frustration.
He was sitting alone on the steps outside the hotel, watching a cigarette burn between his fingers. The sensation of being still was at once disorienting and refreshing, and for a brief moment he entertained the idea of ceasing his search for a woman who did not want to be found.
Unless she did, unless she expected it somehow--
No. He'd promised himself he wouldn't think about any of it tonight.
So it had come as quite a surprise to find a familiar adversary standing before him, presenting a fist for the fight.
He easily avoided her attempt to slap him, gripping her wrist tightly. He did not look at her face.
"I didn't kill him."
"Who was it, then? Was it her?"
"No."
"Where is she?"
He remained silent.
"Why are you here?" she persisted. "What are you looking for?"
"What are you looking for?"
It was her turn to keep her lips sealed.
He exhaled imaginary smoke and released her wrist, almost as if he had forgotten he was holding it. It seemed as though she had, too; all the fight leaked out of her like air from a punctured balloon.
"Let's just say she stole something of mine," he concluded, and rose to leave. "And I'd like it back."
"If I find her," she said in a voice so low that he could not be sure she had spoken, "When I find her, I *will* kill her."
"She won't give you that opportunity," he observed neutrally.
She regarded him suspiciously, and curiously, and he knew that if the connection was made somewhere in her mind the ensuing revulsion would smear her lips into an even angrier scowl. But the connection would not be made, ever, by anyone, although sometimes he found himself wishing they had been less careful and some observer would have determined the truth. At least in that situation this oppressive secrecy would not have led to the constant, searing sting across his chest every time she was mentioned and he was not afforded the right to grieve.
"I've been following you for a while now," she said. "I've been getting ready for this."
He stood silently before her, an open challenge. But it is less fun to attack a man who will not fight, and you will hate yourself after you have achieved a victory that is not rightfully yours.
"I'm not ready for this," she admitted, and he knew this battle was over for now; she actually believed him, which would have been less remarkable if he had not been telling the truth.
"Come inside," he said, momentarily softened by the thought of all she had lost and all that she would never understand. "I'll buy you a drink."
And in the moments before dawn arrived, he slowly pushed through the last traces of an alcohol stupor to find himself beside her on the unpleasant mattress he'd paid for the privilege of using for the night. She was fully clothed, as was he, shoes and all. Their bodies were quite different, he noted clinically. This is not the same as it was before. So it was just as well that he had not attempted to replace one with the other, because it would not have worked. He almost liked Sydney, despite everything, and he felt sorry for her, because she would never be able to grasp the part she had always been intended to play, and he could not explain it to her. It was something she should have known, and didn't, something she would forever lack.
Every child was inevitably destined to disappoint its mother.
And on that note, he lifted himself gently off the mattress, with the intention of getting an early start on this day's leg of the journey. She stretched and shifted position, taking up the space he had left empty, moaning slightly. He did not leave a note, did not whisper a last goodbye.
He left discreetly, headed in the direction of the next destination on his list of possibilities. There were no witnesses, no one to say, 'He went that way.' He had little doubt that Sydney would one day succeed on her last mission; he would not make it easy for her. To do so would deny her the vengeful satisfaction to be found in the thrill of the chase.
Prior to closing the door on Sydney Bristow one last time, he briefly contemplated taking advantage of the weapon she had artfully concealed. He could use it on her, finish what Irina had perhaps not had the fortitude to complete, thirty years or six months ago. But he was feeling uncharacteristically kind toward her at the moment, so as she had spared his life a few hours before, he decided to extend her the same courtesy now. The thought briefly entered his mind that he should at least remove the bullets, render the weapon harmless.
But he kind of hoped one day Sydney would find the nerve to go through with it.
* * *
When he slept, briefly and not fitfully, he dreamt intermittently of her face as daylight began to break. She would regard him, perhaps even be somewhat surprised initially upon recognizing his face, and her features would slowly turn to stone. It was not that he was afraid of being frozen out; although he felt sure he would not enjoy that particular potential turn of the tables, his heartless persona did not often fall away to reveal hidden sentimentality where none existed. He would certainly feel nothing upon her rejection other than irritation. Not even with her, but with himself, for allowing this to happen.
He had been traveling for months now, always two steps behind, or two steps ahead, of his predictably elusive prey. With no ties to anyone, including his former employer, he had found little with which to occupy himself other than the pursuit of one final target.
The bloodbath in Austria had merely been an excuse for her to disappear; he recognized that now, although he had not at the time. The night before, she had given herself to him almost completely, saying the words he didn't realize he wanted to hear until they had already been said. She had not said 'goodbye' or 'I'm sorry'; she gave him no warning about what was to come beyond the barest details of the mission. Of course she had known he would be able to hold his own once things began to go "wrong," and so perhaps it was her idea of a gift, one last night together alone, blissfully ignorant. Perhaps this sort of deception was merely the closest to nurturing she would ever come.
At first, he had almost been too shell-shocked to hold a grudge. After all, she had ensured he would be spared, along with herself, even if they were not reunited after all was said and done. What more could he have asked? He knew he had always been a place-holder in her life, he knew; a surrogate son, a replacement lover, the only one who truly understood and respected the choices she had made. Sloane would pretend to understand, but he was always an outsider, and perhaps toward the end he had sensed that, made some ill-advised threats in her direction. Whatever brought it on, when the dust settled, she had left her former husband near to death on the battlefield; her collaborator, her daughter's lover, and many others in the crossfire were not so blessed. She was gone, presumed dead in an ill-timed explosion set by the enemy, but more likely alive and finally in possession of all that she ever really wanted.
And he had emerged unharmed and free.
So had her daughter, although she did not consider that a gift, and perhaps it wasn't intended to be.
Sydney Bristow had launched a one-woman search of her own, a fact of which he had been made aware by a few associates who had been loyal to his employer, once upon a time, back in the U.S.
He had certainly not expected to cross paths with her, but he did, in Liverpool. Later, he would be unable to explain exactly why he'd felt compelled to make the stop, but he had been traveling for some time without pausing to breathe. Something about the weather here matched his shade of melancholy, and the oppressive air fed his increasing frustration.
He was sitting alone on the steps outside the hotel, watching a cigarette burn between his fingers. The sensation of being still was at once disorienting and refreshing, and for a brief moment he entertained the idea of ceasing his search for a woman who did not want to be found.
Unless she did, unless she expected it somehow--
No. He'd promised himself he wouldn't think about any of it tonight.
So it had come as quite a surprise to find a familiar adversary standing before him, presenting a fist for the fight.
He easily avoided her attempt to slap him, gripping her wrist tightly. He did not look at her face.
"I didn't kill him."
"Who was it, then? Was it her?"
"No."
"Where is she?"
He remained silent.
"Why are you here?" she persisted. "What are you looking for?"
"What are you looking for?"
It was her turn to keep her lips sealed.
He exhaled imaginary smoke and released her wrist, almost as if he had forgotten he was holding it. It seemed as though she had, too; all the fight leaked out of her like air from a punctured balloon.
"Let's just say she stole something of mine," he concluded, and rose to leave. "And I'd like it back."
"If I find her," she said in a voice so low that he could not be sure she had spoken, "When I find her, I *will* kill her."
"She won't give you that opportunity," he observed neutrally.
She regarded him suspiciously, and curiously, and he knew that if the connection was made somewhere in her mind the ensuing revulsion would smear her lips into an even angrier scowl. But the connection would not be made, ever, by anyone, although sometimes he found himself wishing they had been less careful and some observer would have determined the truth. At least in that situation this oppressive secrecy would not have led to the constant, searing sting across his chest every time she was mentioned and he was not afforded the right to grieve.
"I've been following you for a while now," she said. "I've been getting ready for this."
He stood silently before her, an open challenge. But it is less fun to attack a man who will not fight, and you will hate yourself after you have achieved a victory that is not rightfully yours.
"I'm not ready for this," she admitted, and he knew this battle was over for now; she actually believed him, which would have been less remarkable if he had not been telling the truth.
"Come inside," he said, momentarily softened by the thought of all she had lost and all that she would never understand. "I'll buy you a drink."
And in the moments before dawn arrived, he slowly pushed through the last traces of an alcohol stupor to find himself beside her on the unpleasant mattress he'd paid for the privilege of using for the night. She was fully clothed, as was he, shoes and all. Their bodies were quite different, he noted clinically. This is not the same as it was before. So it was just as well that he had not attempted to replace one with the other, because it would not have worked. He almost liked Sydney, despite everything, and he felt sorry for her, because she would never be able to grasp the part she had always been intended to play, and he could not explain it to her. It was something she should have known, and didn't, something she would forever lack.
Every child was inevitably destined to disappoint its mother.
And on that note, he lifted himself gently off the mattress, with the intention of getting an early start on this day's leg of the journey. She stretched and shifted position, taking up the space he had left empty, moaning slightly. He did not leave a note, did not whisper a last goodbye.
He left discreetly, headed in the direction of the next destination on his list of possibilities. There were no witnesses, no one to say, 'He went that way.' He had little doubt that Sydney would one day succeed on her last mission; he would not make it easy for her. To do so would deny her the vengeful satisfaction to be found in the thrill of the chase.
Prior to closing the door on Sydney Bristow one last time, he briefly contemplated taking advantage of the weapon she had artfully concealed. He could use it on her, finish what Irina had perhaps not had the fortitude to complete, thirty years or six months ago. But he was feeling uncharacteristically kind toward her at the moment, so as she had spared his life a few hours before, he decided to extend her the same courtesy now. The thought briefly entered his mind that he should at least remove the bullets, render the weapon harmless.
But he kind of hoped one day Sydney would find the nerve to go through with it.