3.
"Sydney, I thought I told you to at least attempt to refrain from becoming a mad stalker. I mean, I think I can leave you alone for one minute just to come back finding you memorizing childhood photos. What am I going to do?" Vaughn entered the living room again with the phonebook cradled under his arm. He seemed to be in good spirits. That is, until he saw Sydney's shocked expression.
He walked over to her, concern clouding his brilliantly green eyes. He tentatively placed a hand on her shoulder. "Sydney, is there something wrong?"
Sydney mutely handed the picture over to him.
He was eight years old, smiling in the
embrace of both his mother and father, a short-lived luxury, in front of
Harvard University. What the hell he was doing in front of Harvard at the age
of eight was beyond him but he remembered that he had enjoyed the visit.
It was December in that picture, the snow drifted lazily in front of the lens
and landed in mounds at their feet. A half-finished snowman lay a foot away.
The Vaughns were bundled up in their snow wear, smiling faces, and each other.
Michael looked up wistfully, thinking about the good times. What would have
happened if my father hadn't died? What kind of man would I be? What if Derevko
hadn't killed him? No. Don't blame Sydney; it wasn't her fault. And it wasn't
my fault either. Okay, so I had been mad at him; okay so I had told him I hated
him for missing my hockey game. Kids do that. Fathers don't go on CIA missions
and get themselves killed every single time a kid yells at them. It's not my
fault. It's not her fault. A tear freed itself from his eye and drifted
towards his cheek. He turned and remembered Sydney was there. Surely a family
picture wouldn't faze her this much could it? After all, she had family of her
own and she knew of their history. Was it just the action of actually knowing
what his father looked like?
"Sydney, you know I don't blame for my father's death. I completely understand if you feel a little jarred at seeing his face and all but you have to believe me. You are not your mother and I know that." He looked at her, surprised to see her crying and even more surprised to see her shaking her head.
Her voice came out almost lower than a whisper. "That's not it. That's . . . not it." She reclaimed the photograph and gazed off into the corner of the picture, looking away from his family or his snowman or even his future college of choice. He stood behind her, half worried about what was wrong with her and half curious to see what had held her attention.
Her finger reached to the very corner of the photograph, right where it became blurry. A very fuzzy family came into view, almost hidden by a snowflake in front of the lens. Her finger moved downwards, finally resting just below a little girl with dark brown hair, pointing at something in the sky. "That's me."
Vaughn's mouth was open he knew. He looked closer and saw two figures standing behind the little Sydney. A much younger Jack. And Laura Bristow, a.k.a. Irina Derekvo. He couldn't help but feel a slight rage at the fact that his father's murderer was in the picture as his family. That she should have an imprint on even the happy times of his life. But he looked at Sydney and saw that she only felt sadness, not rage, because of the photograph. He stared at it wonderingly. How amazing was this? What were the chances that another family would bring their almost infant child to Harvard and that she would later become his asset? And he her handler. He wanted to ask her. Ask her about everything, demand her to explain her feelings. But he knew that she was about to express them anyway so he waited.
"Vaughn, I know that you are probably not experiencing the
same reactions that I am. I bet that you feel enraged to know that my mother
has been sitting on your mantel for the past who knows how many years. I know
you are probably incredulous that she has appeared in this picture with your
father and I know that you probably feel that you would like to burn this
picture now. And I also think that you are trying very hard to not blame me."
Michael was amazed at how perceptive she was but kept it to himself. "But you
have to forgive me. All I feel~ is sadness. And I feel so hollow inside. Like
someone has reached out and stolen my soul. You know more that anyone how
twisted and fake my life it. Yes, so I'm working for my country. But it's not
exactly beneficial to my lifestyle. And now, being here, seeing this.
It all just kind of hit me.
My childhood was the only true thing in my life. I was
actually happy, I had a family, and my mother loved me. I cherished these
times, Vaughn. When she. . . When she
died, this era died too. And I suppose that I still think of my mother as
"dead". Laura Bristow died and she was my mother. You have to
understand.
"No, you don't have to understand. But I want to tell you how very
different she was to me. She was my mother. She fed me, played with me, showed
me every kindness and showered me with love. And to now remember that that was
all fake. . . that not even my childhood was not my own. . . I feel like I'm not real." She looked down,
feeling silly and childish.
Vaughn's heart broke for her. "Sydney, you ARE real. You are
the most "real" person I have ever met. Not to mention the strongest. You are
an amazing person who has managed to live through things that most
people can't imagine and everybody respects you for that." He pulled Sydney
into a hug.
"I promise you, that even when everything else around you doesn't make any
sense, I will always be your rock. You can always trust me because I'll always
be there for you. It's as simple as that all right? I don't blame you for
anything, in fact, I admire you more than any other person I know." He realized
he was rambling. She probably wasn't even listening to him but he had to say
the words. For her to think that she didn't matter, that she wasn't real, was
unacceptable for him.
How could the most stable thing in his life not be sure of herself?
His shoulder shook from her sobs and he suddenly realized how much effect the picture was actually having on her. His heart shuddered. His Sydney had been reduced to a child by a photo when nothing else had ever shaken her before. He led her to the sofa and gently set her down. "I'm going to get your coffee okay?" She didn't respond. He got up to get it anyway.
Sydney shook. Yes Vaughn had hugged her, yes his warmth
still stayed with her and she was sure some part of her was relishing that but
at the moment, it was all she could do to keep her mouth from falling open. She
reached out a shaking hand and touched the photo. She still remembered that
day. Dad had been so proud of his school, so eager to show her and ingrain its majesty
into her brain. She grinned softly. It hadn't actually worked. Her eyes focused
then on Laura Bristow. Her hair flying in the wind, snow covering her
shoulders, and her features blurred, she was gorgeous.
Sydney traced her mother's face with
her nail, missing her desperately. Yes, her mother was in a cell down at the
CIA head quarters but that was not the same woman. That was not the woman who
sang her to sleep, who played tricks on her father with her, who taught her how
to cook, to read, to sing, and learn the multiplication tables. She shuddered,
her whole body aching with hollowness. It took all her strength to hold herself
upright.
Vaughn came back with a steaming cup in hand. Sydney took it gingerly, feeling the warmth rejuvenate her and smelling its mocha fragrance. Then she sat it down on the table, frightened that she wouldn't be able to hold it anymore. She looked at Vaughn who was, in turn, looking at her with an expression of mixed wonderment and concern. He didn't think he would ever see Super Agent Bristow miss a step. She smiled weakly and motioned him to sit down next to her. He did so. She lifted her face to look into his eyes; "Vaughn, I'm so sorry that this all happened. I know I should be in a cab on my way back to the warehouse now. If I get you into trouble, I'll take all the blame, it was my fault. I'm so sorry." The word kept tumbling from her mouth, she couldn't stop. She was so sorry; sorry for all the hurt that she felt, sorry for the burden she put on Vaughn. God knew that he wouldn't let her off alone in a cab now. He was too, well, frankly, he was too maternal for that.
Look at her, trying to be Superman. Sydney, it's okay to let yourself go. GO ahead and cry, it's only me. Your guardian angel. I'll look out for you. You don't have to go through this alone. But he merely said, "Okay."
He wasn't even sure why he said okay. He knew that he would never let her take the blame, that he didn't even know exactly what she was sorry for. It was just that he was unable to speak, too mesmerized at how she managed to be beautiful even swallowed up by misery. And then he realized that he too was miserable. He looked at her. Well, misery loves company.
"Vaughn, I can't hold myself up anymore. I don't have the strength right now. So I'll lie down for a few minutes, you wake me up and I'll go all right?" Her eyes were still focused on the picture laying on the table. Vaughn nodded but instead pull her towards him so that she was leaning on his shoulder. He placed an arm around her. See Sydney? You can lean on me. That's what I'm here for. I'll protect you.
