I wrote this for the May challenge at SD1. The elements required are baseball, flowers, and a famous movie line. This is a one-parter. I hope you enjoy it.
Title: Locked in Stone
Author: Janice aka jes004
Disclaimer: The characters in this story are owned by JJ Abrams and ABC. I've only borrowed them for the story.
Synopsis: Jack loses his tightly held control after a confrontation with Sloane and struggles to regain his equilibrium.
Timeframe: The events take place in Season 1, Episode 18. (Masquerade) Script dialogue is taken from the Revised Blue 2 script available at Planet MegaMall.
Much thanks to Lilydale for beta'ing this fic!
PS - Reviews are always much appreciated!
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Jack slammed closed the door of his car, his anger simmering just below the surface. Sloane had known which button to push, known his greatest weakness. Remaining cool in his presence had taken every ounce of self-control. He turned the ignition, setting the air conditioner on full blast, while trying to bring his emotions under control, but Sloane's parting shot continued to fuel his rage.
"You should know by now that my interest is in protecting Sydney. It has always been my pleasure to fill in for you when you were… indisposed."
"Bastard," he muttered under his breath. "Arrogant, insufferable, bastard." He felt the vibration from his pager and jerked it from his belt. A quick glance told him his handler at the CIA wanted to set up a meet. He swore long and profusely, switching from German to Spanish to Russian when English was no longer sufficient. Revving the engine, he quickly made his way from the underground SD-6 parking garage to his home. The drive did little to cool his burning anger. For twenty years he'd held his emotions in check, never sharing his anguish, never showing his pain. Sloane's words taunted him again. "...when you were indisposed. ....indisposed. ...indisposed."
He parked the car in his garage, but couldn't bring himself to go in. It had been their house. His and Laura's. The house they purchased together, the one that had been their dream home. The home where they would grow old together. Why hadn't he sold it years ago? He kept it for Sydney, or so he told himself. She'd been deprived of her mother, of her father. He couldn't take that away, too. That's what he told himself, how he justified it all those years ago. There had always been a battle between him and the house, between him and the memories. Nighttime tortures that left him tired and restless during the day. No, he couldn't go inside today. Not yet. He had to purge the memories, dull the pain.
Over the years, there had been only one solution for his torment and his feet followed a familiar path. He stood outside the bar allowing his mask, his armor to fall in place. He nodded to the bartender and slipped onto a stool.
"Here early, Jack?" He saw the concern in Mike's eyes. Mike had witnessed his long struggle for sanity, had helped him pull out from the pit of despair. He had been a friend, when others had abandoned him. They had trained together at the Academy, but Mike's father had died unexpectedly and he left the Company to run the family business. "Everything okay?" he asked softly, placing the glass of whiskey on the bar.
"Yeah, the boss thinks I need a break. He ordered me to take a few days off." Gratefully he swallowed the warm liquid. Over the years the bar had changed from a simple gathering place for locals, to a trendy upscale sports bar, adding a small dining area and a couple of television sets mounted on the walls for maximum viewing. As was the norm, each set was tuned to a different sports channel. Today the sport of choice was baseball and several patrons nursed their drinks while intently watching the games. He hadn't followed the game in years, but had once been an avid fan. "D*mn baseball strikes," he muttered under his breath.
"Who's on first?"
Jack looked up at his friend, startled. "What?"
"No, he's on second. Who is on first." Mike was grinning at Jack's puzzled stare.
"I don't know…" The words were out before he realized it.
Mike chuckled. "Third base!"
Jack grimaced. "I haven't heard that old routine in years. Abbott and Costello."
"Yeah, I remember when we had to explain it to Laura." The chuckle died in Mike's throat. "Oh God, I'm sorry, Jack."
"It's okay. It's been twenty years. I'm over it." Jack scowled at his drink, knowing his friend would not question the lie. Laura. She hadn't died after all. No, not Laura, he corrected himself. It's funny, but he didn't know her real name. Through all their questioning, the endless hours of psychological torture, not once did his tormenters ever call her anything other than Laura. Had they hoped he would inadvertently use her real name, thus incriminating himself? A deep fierce anger against the CIA burned from within. God d*mn them to hell! Who were they to keep information from him? Who were they to decide what he should and should not know? It was his life. He had a right to know. He'd been doubly betrayed, first by his wife, then by his government.
"Club Soda, please." Jack looked up, startled. Sydney. So, the CIA sent out the cavalry. How touching of them to be so concerned.
"How'd you find me?"
"Your car was still parked in the garage. I thought you might have walked somewhere close. This is the fifth place I've looked."
God, he was tired. Sloane was right. He did need a break. To clear his head. To arm himself against the impending darkness. But first he needed to ward off his daughter. "Mike, can I get the check?" God, that was abrupt, but he had to get away. The concern in Sydney's eyes was overwhelming him.
"Dad, it's two o'clock in the afternoon. What are you doing here?" He didn't answer. Couldn't answer. "I think you might want to talk to someone."
Talk to someone? He didn't need to talk to someone. Kill, maim, strangle. Yes, any of those would do. But talk? He was tired of talking. "Noted."
"Six months ago, I wasn't… I didn't know how to talk to you, but now I feel like… like I at least know you well enough to say …"
"What's happening between us, Sydney … is temporary …" He was being harsh. Perhaps too harsh, but he had to stop her. Sloane's voice echoed again, "...when you were indisposed."
"I'm not suggesting the person you should talk to is me. It shouldn't be me. But the Agency has counselors. I think you should see one."
Did she not know how many of the Agency's counselors had done their duty on his psyche? He'd had enough of them to last a lifetime. "Sydney, you are responsible for no one but yourself …"
"It's not irrational for me to be worried about you!" A few heads turned in the bar as Sydney raised her voice.
"Please. Keep. Your voice. Down."
"I didn't think you'd listen to my advice. So I made it official… I came to pass along an order from Devlin: you're going to a counselor for trauma evaluation." He gave her his best glare, angry at her for interfering, then finally, he is alone. Alone with his drink.
"Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine."
"Mike, you need to stop watching old movies."
"I can't help it. They fascinate me. So, that was Sydney, all grown up. Got her mother's looks, that's for sure. Lucky she didn't get your mug," he teased, trying to lighten the mood, but Sloane's words whispered to Jack once more, "...when you were indisposed."
"I've gotta go, Mike."
"Take care, buddy." Jack waved at his friend and headed home. There was one thing he needed to do before the day ended.
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The cemetery was well manicured and resembled numberless others just like it. He stooped over the tombstone and removed the dead flowers from his previous visit and placed a new bouquet in its stead. The cemetery conveniently supplied a small flower shop for those last minute tributes and over the years he'd always purchased the gravesite flowers there. The clerk always gushed about his sentimentality, mourning a well loved wife.
He stood staring at her marker. 'Beloved wife and mother. You were with us here on earth only for a little while, but your spirit will live within us forever.' He had come here first, after his release from solitary confinement. How long had he stayed, an hour? Two? It didn't matter. He'd left a piece of himself here that day. For safekeeping. Later he filled the empty place with whiskey. It never failed to dull the ache and warm the void.
He'd been careful not to drink around Sydney, so he stayed away, choosing the bottle over his daughter. He had missed so many things in her young life. So many times when he should have been home or at her school, but the numbing bliss of the bottle held him captive instead. Had Sloane stepped in when he'd been too far gone to care? He couldn't remember. Those first few years were shadowed in an alcoholic haze.
And now Laura was back. Alive. But this time, this time was different. This time he was in control. He read the inscription again, words he'd penned with a broken heart. How many times had he wanted to smash the granite into a thousand pieces? He knew he couldn't. Knew he never would. Not because he still loved the woman whose name wasn't Laura, but because he knew that locked within the stone was his heart. He touched his hand to the marble. It felt cool against his flesh. Cold even.
Title: Locked in Stone
Author: Janice aka jes004
Disclaimer: The characters in this story are owned by JJ Abrams and ABC. I've only borrowed them for the story.
Synopsis: Jack loses his tightly held control after a confrontation with Sloane and struggles to regain his equilibrium.
Timeframe: The events take place in Season 1, Episode 18. (Masquerade) Script dialogue is taken from the Revised Blue 2 script available at Planet MegaMall.
Much thanks to Lilydale for beta'ing this fic!
PS - Reviews are always much appreciated!
………………………………………………………………………
Jack slammed closed the door of his car, his anger simmering just below the surface. Sloane had known which button to push, known his greatest weakness. Remaining cool in his presence had taken every ounce of self-control. He turned the ignition, setting the air conditioner on full blast, while trying to bring his emotions under control, but Sloane's parting shot continued to fuel his rage.
"You should know by now that my interest is in protecting Sydney. It has always been my pleasure to fill in for you when you were… indisposed."
"Bastard," he muttered under his breath. "Arrogant, insufferable, bastard." He felt the vibration from his pager and jerked it from his belt. A quick glance told him his handler at the CIA wanted to set up a meet. He swore long and profusely, switching from German to Spanish to Russian when English was no longer sufficient. Revving the engine, he quickly made his way from the underground SD-6 parking garage to his home. The drive did little to cool his burning anger. For twenty years he'd held his emotions in check, never sharing his anguish, never showing his pain. Sloane's words taunted him again. "...when you were indisposed. ....indisposed. ...indisposed."
He parked the car in his garage, but couldn't bring himself to go in. It had been their house. His and Laura's. The house they purchased together, the one that had been their dream home. The home where they would grow old together. Why hadn't he sold it years ago? He kept it for Sydney, or so he told himself. She'd been deprived of her mother, of her father. He couldn't take that away, too. That's what he told himself, how he justified it all those years ago. There had always been a battle between him and the house, between him and the memories. Nighttime tortures that left him tired and restless during the day. No, he couldn't go inside today. Not yet. He had to purge the memories, dull the pain.
Over the years, there had been only one solution for his torment and his feet followed a familiar path. He stood outside the bar allowing his mask, his armor to fall in place. He nodded to the bartender and slipped onto a stool.
"Here early, Jack?" He saw the concern in Mike's eyes. Mike had witnessed his long struggle for sanity, had helped him pull out from the pit of despair. He had been a friend, when others had abandoned him. They had trained together at the Academy, but Mike's father had died unexpectedly and he left the Company to run the family business. "Everything okay?" he asked softly, placing the glass of whiskey on the bar.
"Yeah, the boss thinks I need a break. He ordered me to take a few days off." Gratefully he swallowed the warm liquid. Over the years the bar had changed from a simple gathering place for locals, to a trendy upscale sports bar, adding a small dining area and a couple of television sets mounted on the walls for maximum viewing. As was the norm, each set was tuned to a different sports channel. Today the sport of choice was baseball and several patrons nursed their drinks while intently watching the games. He hadn't followed the game in years, but had once been an avid fan. "D*mn baseball strikes," he muttered under his breath.
"Who's on first?"
Jack looked up at his friend, startled. "What?"
"No, he's on second. Who is on first." Mike was grinning at Jack's puzzled stare.
"I don't know…" The words were out before he realized it.
Mike chuckled. "Third base!"
Jack grimaced. "I haven't heard that old routine in years. Abbott and Costello."
"Yeah, I remember when we had to explain it to Laura." The chuckle died in Mike's throat. "Oh God, I'm sorry, Jack."
"It's okay. It's been twenty years. I'm over it." Jack scowled at his drink, knowing his friend would not question the lie. Laura. She hadn't died after all. No, not Laura, he corrected himself. It's funny, but he didn't know her real name. Through all their questioning, the endless hours of psychological torture, not once did his tormenters ever call her anything other than Laura. Had they hoped he would inadvertently use her real name, thus incriminating himself? A deep fierce anger against the CIA burned from within. God d*mn them to hell! Who were they to keep information from him? Who were they to decide what he should and should not know? It was his life. He had a right to know. He'd been doubly betrayed, first by his wife, then by his government.
"Club Soda, please." Jack looked up, startled. Sydney. So, the CIA sent out the cavalry. How touching of them to be so concerned.
"How'd you find me?"
"Your car was still parked in the garage. I thought you might have walked somewhere close. This is the fifth place I've looked."
God, he was tired. Sloane was right. He did need a break. To clear his head. To arm himself against the impending darkness. But first he needed to ward off his daughter. "Mike, can I get the check?" God, that was abrupt, but he had to get away. The concern in Sydney's eyes was overwhelming him.
"Dad, it's two o'clock in the afternoon. What are you doing here?" He didn't answer. Couldn't answer. "I think you might want to talk to someone."
Talk to someone? He didn't need to talk to someone. Kill, maim, strangle. Yes, any of those would do. But talk? He was tired of talking. "Noted."
"Six months ago, I wasn't… I didn't know how to talk to you, but now I feel like… like I at least know you well enough to say …"
"What's happening between us, Sydney … is temporary …" He was being harsh. Perhaps too harsh, but he had to stop her. Sloane's voice echoed again, "...when you were indisposed."
"I'm not suggesting the person you should talk to is me. It shouldn't be me. But the Agency has counselors. I think you should see one."
Did she not know how many of the Agency's counselors had done their duty on his psyche? He'd had enough of them to last a lifetime. "Sydney, you are responsible for no one but yourself …"
"It's not irrational for me to be worried about you!" A few heads turned in the bar as Sydney raised her voice.
"Please. Keep. Your voice. Down."
"I didn't think you'd listen to my advice. So I made it official… I came to pass along an order from Devlin: you're going to a counselor for trauma evaluation." He gave her his best glare, angry at her for interfering, then finally, he is alone. Alone with his drink.
"Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine."
"Mike, you need to stop watching old movies."
"I can't help it. They fascinate me. So, that was Sydney, all grown up. Got her mother's looks, that's for sure. Lucky she didn't get your mug," he teased, trying to lighten the mood, but Sloane's words whispered to Jack once more, "...when you were indisposed."
"I've gotta go, Mike."
"Take care, buddy." Jack waved at his friend and headed home. There was one thing he needed to do before the day ended.
…………………………………
The cemetery was well manicured and resembled numberless others just like it. He stooped over the tombstone and removed the dead flowers from his previous visit and placed a new bouquet in its stead. The cemetery conveniently supplied a small flower shop for those last minute tributes and over the years he'd always purchased the gravesite flowers there. The clerk always gushed about his sentimentality, mourning a well loved wife.
He stood staring at her marker. 'Beloved wife and mother. You were with us here on earth only for a little while, but your spirit will live within us forever.' He had come here first, after his release from solitary confinement. How long had he stayed, an hour? Two? It didn't matter. He'd left a piece of himself here that day. For safekeeping. Later he filled the empty place with whiskey. It never failed to dull the ache and warm the void.
He'd been careful not to drink around Sydney, so he stayed away, choosing the bottle over his daughter. He had missed so many things in her young life. So many times when he should have been home or at her school, but the numbing bliss of the bottle held him captive instead. Had Sloane stepped in when he'd been too far gone to care? He couldn't remember. Those first few years were shadowed in an alcoholic haze.
And now Laura was back. Alive. But this time, this time was different. This time he was in control. He read the inscription again, words he'd penned with a broken heart. How many times had he wanted to smash the granite into a thousand pieces? He knew he couldn't. Knew he never would. Not because he still loved the woman whose name wasn't Laura, but because he knew that locked within the stone was his heart. He touched his hand to the marble. It felt cool against his flesh. Cold even.