CHAPTER FOUR
THEN
So they go to Scotland, and they trace Sloane [he's using one of his many aliases, one that Jack recognises from SD-6] to a large country manor on the coast, just near a place called Stranraer, a tiny village with narrow, cobblestone streets [quaint, Laura would have called it].
It's pretty countryside, beautiful even, but nothing really seems lovely [nothing seems good] anymore, not since his daughter disappeared [longer than that, maybe…since Laura died, he admits silently to himself].
He thinks about his daughter a lot these days [spygirlwomandaughter], about his failure as a father [abandonmentbetrayalfailureguilttearsrage], about her mother [saviourlovermotherspybetrayerhateloveguiltpainblood]….
He abandoned her for so many years, left her to grow up without a mother and not knowing her father – he had left her in the care of others, left her to cry about her problems and share her successes with strangers….
He felt guilty, felt responsible for her fate, for her life as a spy, for the death of her fiancée, for her disappearance now, her captivity in the hands of the most twisted people he'd ever met [his wife and best friend].
But the guilt was his, was it not?
He was the one who created Project Christmas, the one who trained her as a spy, the one who took away her choices in life…..he was the one responsible for her fate.
He was guilty.
Fathers had but one job, one duty [oh,
they had had many duties, but this was the only one that truly mattered].
Protect your children.
He hadn't protected her.
He'd abandoned her [because he looked at her and only saw the loss of everything he'd ever loved, ever wanted], hurt her [he'd never forget the look in her eyes when he told her he couldn't come to her high school graduation because he had to work], failed to protect her from the one man he needed to have protected her from [Arvin Sloane, he reflected, was possibly the most dangerous man in the world].
He'd failed his daughter for nearly thirty years. He'd promised himself when he saw her in that garage that day [strong and beautiful and proud, and oh, so like her mother], the day she had found out the truth about SD-6, the truth about him, and about her life….he'd promised himself that he would never fail her again.
But he had.
And so Jack Bristow sat in the middle of a garden, having tea with his daughter's….friend, Mr. Vaughn, reflecting on the haunted, empty look he saw in the younger man's eyes, and knowing that he had once looked like that as well.
It fades in time though, he knows [he can barely see it when he looks into the mirror now].
The look in Vaughn's eyes is the look that comes from only one thing in this world, Jack knows.
It's the look of a man who has inflicted pain, and knows that he would do it again if it would help him achieve his goals.
It's the look of a good man who has been forced to kill – and knows he will kill again to protect those he loves.
Jack Bristow knows that looks very well indeed, oh yes indeed.
He'd killed many men.
He was good at it.
It was his job, after all, and Jack Bristow was excellent at what he did.
Yes, he'd killed many men, he thinks. [killed them, watched them die, slowly, quickly, screaming, silently…no man dies the same way, he learnt after the first ten or so]
After awhile, he stopped watching them die in his dreams [stopped seeing the blood every time he closed his eyes].
After Laura died [after Irina betrayed him], he had almost welcomed the missions.
Jack, they would say, we have another job for you.
And part of him would rejoice [another chance to die, another chance to kill, another chance to allow the guilt/pain/blood of the killing to overwhelm him, take away the pain/betrayal/hate/tortured love that Laura's "death" had caused] as another part wept inside of him [the part that wept was the part that still loved her/the part that refused to see her as anything other than his wife/the part that was still innocent]
Part of him almost enjoyed it [satisfactionreleasefreedomkillingbloodfreedomdistraction] after awhile. Part of him still screamed.
* * *
Sloane's house is little more than a farmhouse, really, just an old, rambling house on a large farm.
They raid it, this time just the CIA team [Jack and Vaughn lead them in, as usual. They all care about her, but these two are obsessed], six men, storming a deserted house on a beach as the rain falls all around them.
They're tired of the hunt, the search, the hopelessness.
The rain falls from a blue grey sky, and it seems like the heavens are crying.
The sun doesn't shine, flowers don't bloom.
They raid an empty house.
There's a bedroom upstairs, the only bedroom that looks to have been used.
It's large, and it's airy and clean and big and bright. There's a king-sized bed in the centre, and a crib in the corner.
On the bed there's a warm looking bedspread, with a pretty pink woollen blanket tossed on the corner.
On the walls there are watercolour paintings, and in the bookshelves are some of her favourite books, a veritable Who's Who in literature.
Vaughn runs his finger along the bookshelf. His finger detects no dust, but his hand shakes slightly as he traces the spines of the book.
Tolstoy. Anna Karenina. [I mean, this is Tolstoy-long]
A collection of poetry. There's a tag marking a page in this book.
Vaughn, intrigued, opens the book to the marked page.
How
do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of every day's
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints,--I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life!--and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
- Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Vaughn closes his eyes, and remembers a night maybe two weeks before Sydney had disappeared [he remembers, slightly shocked, that it would have been only four weeks ago. It seemed like a lifetime ago.]
They were both at Sydney's house, lying in her bed early one morning, tired but happy, sunlight streaming in through the blinds on the windows above her bed.
He rolled onto his back, flinging one arm around as he shifted position.
"Ouch! Syd, you didn't warn me you were keeping bricks on your dresser now!"
He picked up the offending object that he had whacked with his wrist, lifting it gingerly.
"This thing is massive!" he said, inspecting the massive hardcover book of poetry.
Turning the book over in his hands, he flipped open the book and browsed
through the poems inside.
He stopped as he reached Sonnet XLIII.
"How do I love thee?
Let me count the ways…"
As he read the poem, he turned back on
his side, and rested the tip of his index finger on Syd's
nose.
"Wake up, sleepyhead…" he whispered in her ear as she slept on, snoring
lightly.
Very few people knew that Sydney Bristow snored. Michael Vaughn was one of these people, however, and had acquired much information on both how to stop the snoring [roll her onto her side] as well as how to wake up Sydney Bristow [she was particularly ticklish in an adorable little spot below her ear that Vaughn knew very well].
But that morning Vaughn was more than prepared to let his lover sleep while he whispered poetry in her ear.
He stared at her for a few more minutes before he returned to the book, taking in every feature of her face, her neck, her ears, her arms…he loved seeing her like this, his strong, delicate, beautiful, kick-ass angel sleeping in his arms…she rarely looked quite so peaceful, so happy as when she slept. It was only in sleep that she was free, even now, it seemed.
So he read the poem to her, as he traced the lines of her face with his fingers.
Once he finished the poem, her eyes sprang open, and she began to giggle.
"Good morning, Mr. Vaughn!"
"You were awake all this time?!"
She just giggled harder now, and then asked mischievously, "Would you like to
show me exactly how you love me?"
"Is that a challenge, Miss Bristow?"
"Do you want it to be a challenge, Agent Vaughn?" she replied coquettishly.
"That's it. You're on."
He pinned her wrists to the bed and began to kiss a line down her forehead, past her nose, to her lips, and jaw, and chin and…well, he didn't stop going, let's just put it that way.
Vaughn blushes slightly at the memory, suddenly very aware that Sydney's father is standing behind him, wondering what is quite so fascinating about a book of poetry.
But he flips to the front of the book before returning it to the shelf, looking around as he does so.
But it is there, in the front of the book, where he sees something that makes his blood freeze in his veins.
He can hear his heart beating. There is nothing else besides this book, and the words inscribed on the inside front cover.
"Dear Sydney,
With all my love,
Danny, Christmas 2002"
Danny died in September of 2001.
Yet there is a message here dated a year and a half later.
Out of the book falls a photograph.
If the message in the book confused Vaughn, the photograph destroyed him.
It is nothing more than a simple, lonely, colour photograph of Sydney and a man Vaughn and Jack both recognise as Sark.
They have their arms around each other, and Sydney holds a baby in her arms, swaddled in a fuzzy pink blanket.
They look happy.
They look…..like they're in love.
Vaughn's heart stops, and he tries to remember to breathe.
[what is this? Whose child is that? Why are they together? Where are they?]
there are many questions that Michael Vaughn have for Sydney Bristow at that one moment in time.
The most important, the one shouting loudest to be heard in the haphazard storm of emotions inside his mind is this.
Who are you, and why have they done to you?
But there's a little voice inside his head asking 'Why have you betrayed me?'
* * *
Eric Weiss thinks that seeing Vaughn completely destroy that bedroom would have been easier than seeing his reaction to this photograph.
He didn't do anything, didn't fly into a wild rage, cursing in French, throwing items around the room.
He stood there, motionless, his face a blank.
Eric Weiss has never seen his best friend look less like Michael Vaughn, and more like Jack Bristow, in his life.
Jack simply stands there, watching Vaughn.
* * *
Inside Vaughn's head, he's aware of Jack watching him out of the corner of his eye.
He wonders [rather irrationally, the saner side of him says] whether or not betrayal runs in the family for Bristow women.
Jack was betrayed by the one he loved, Sydney's mother.
Vaughn's father was killed by that same woman.
Irina Derevko destroyed Vaughn's life once, by taking away the father he barely knew, by stealing from him his childhood, from depriving his mother of the man she loved.
Irina Derevko destroyed Jack Bristow once as well, by taking his love, the pure love of their wedding vows, and twisting it into something corrupt and dirty. She took his love and used it to destroy him.
Now, he reflects [bitterly/irrationally/sadly/hopelessly], perhaps Sydney has destroyed us both [true daughter of Irina Derevko?].
He loved her more than he loved life itself, and the thought that she had betrayed him was almost too much to bear.
He felt a sharp, stabbing pain in his heart, like someone had reached inside his chest and ripped out his heart, still pumping blood….it hurt like a part of him was missing, lost, gone forever….
He looked at Jack Bristow, and suddenly understands so much about this man.
Michael Vaughn wants to shout, curse, scream, wants to throw things, hit things, hurt things.
But he can't let go, can't let himself lose control, because he knows that he would never be able to regain control.
So he shuts himself down, controls his emotions, becomes numb, motionless, still.
He becomes Jack Bristow, and he finally understands his lover's father, the cool, emotionless, ruthless demeanour.
He understands that Jack Bristow acts like a heartless bastard because he had a choice once, the same choice Michael Vaughn faces now.
You have a heart of stone, or you hurt people to try and release the pain you feel.
Jack Bristow chose the heart of stone.
So, it seems, will Michael Vaughn.
They're more alike than they'd like to admit, certainly, both hopelessly devoted to protecting Sydney Bristow, both destroyed by Irina Derevko's treachery, both believing protocol to be a dirty word, both wanting nothing more than the love of their lives back but doubting whether or not their fairytale has a happy ending….
They both chose control over emotion when faced with the betrayal by the most important person in their lives [spyloverkillertraitor?], because they knew that once they had relinquished control, they would never regain it, and they still had too much to lose [opportunity for revenge?] to do that.
Both men stand here in a farmhouse, their lives destroyed by the same woman.
Michael Vaughn wonders how his life led to this place. [How did I get like this, Jack? How did I become you?]
Jack Bristow simply wonders what's next. He long ago discovered how his life led him to this place [he had a normal life once, but those days are long gone…those days died when she did].
They are united by a common torment.
They love her and they hate her by turns, love her for who she is, for her beauty, her grace, her skill, her intelligence…..hate her for making them love her, even as she betrays them.
She betrays them, rips their hearts from their chests, kills them, tortures them….and still they can't bring themselves to hate her, no matter how hard they try.
They want to hate her, but they can't.
She destroyed their lives, and still they would readily come back for more if she offered. She's addictive, and destructive, and they are drawn to her like moths to a lamp, growing more and more intoxicated by her as she draws them closer to their doom.
They want to hate her, but they can't, because their love for her is too strong.