Story: Once Upon A Time
Author: Steph, aka Fanatic482 (stephanie406@att.net)
Disclaimer: Alias and the characters of the show aren't mine. They belong to JJ Abrams, ABC, Bad Robot Productions, etc etc
Rating: PG-13 overall, individual chapters that are R will be marked as such
Spoilers/Summary: Sequel to "Beyond All Limits"; General Season 1 Spoilers; Sydney and Sark on a private island with one Prophecy goal to fulfill
Distribution: Cover Me, Sarkgasm, Dark Enigma yes; all other please ask first
Thanks To: Glenna, Jennifer and Becky for the betas!
Author's Note: Sorry for the delay, folks, but here it finally is… hope it's as good as you were expecting, and that the chapter itself is nothing that you were expecting. Hee. Sorry, I'm weird like that. And even though I haven't updated in like 5 weeks, thanks so much to the people that left me notes to let me know I hadn't yet been forgotten! Read & Review as always! Kisses to all… And now for the chapter
Chapter Two: Before the Calm of the Storm
The beginning of her fourteenth day on the island was marked by a sudden and highly dramatic tropical storm. A particularly loud clap of thunder awoke her from her not quite deep sleep. Rather than roll away from the sliding glass doors that led to her balcony and try to block the noise by crushing a pillow to her ear, Sydney got out of bed and wandered outside of her room. She found herself in the main living area; the den, she supposed would be the proper name. It almost seemed as if she was drawn to the room, to stand in the middle of it and stare out at the storm as it tossed the leaves on the bushes and the fronds of the palm trees.
The storm had a calming effect on her, and gradually she sank to sit on the floor in front of the wall made entirely of glass, her forehead pressed against a windowpane. The storm was like her life, she thought—unpredictable, thoughtless, and dangerous one minute, calm and soothing the next.
She knew the minute he stepped off the last stair and into the hallway that bordered the back of the room—the mood, the aura, the electricity level had all changed from sleepy and calm to tense and charged. But she let no muscle tense, made no movement to indicate she was aware of him—it was something she was good at, had been trained well for.
Eventually, he spoke, using that calm soothing tone she'd become accustomed to hearing from him in the past few days. "I thought I might find you here."
"I wasn't aware that you would be looking for me in the middle of the night," she replied.
"Ah," he said, unnecessarily drawing the single syllable word out, and she knew he was walking towards her, his steps muffled by the same plush carpeting that her fingers absentmindedly picked at. "I thought you'd know by now, love, that I always like to know where you are. What you're doing."
Sydney closed her eyes, squeezing them shut tightly. In a terse tone, she said, "I wish you wouldn't call me that."
"What?" he feigned confusion. "Terms of endearment are not to your liking?"
"No. They aren't. Not from you." She rose quickly and whirled around to face him. "In fact, I'd rather you didn't call me by my given name either. Because it's a reminder of who I am in the real world. And this—" she gestured at the room around her "—is not reality. This is not of my choice, nor my doing. This… this is circumstance only. It's not me, it's not you." She narrowed her eyes when he merely smiled. She blinked, and in that mere millisecond, he had moved to her side. She detested his ability to do that.
"Come outside with me," he implored, grabbing her hand with his and tugging her into following behind him. She didn't consciously make a decision to move her feet and follow him; he seemed to make all her thinking and decision-making capacities disappear.
And so she followed him out into the rain, the stinging wetness soaking her, waking her, reminding her she was still alive. Sydney closed her eyes, tipped her face upwards, spread her arms wide, and embraced the moment. Carefree, relaxed, and laughing, turning a slow circle—remembering a long forgotten moment.
"Sydney, you get yourself inside right this moment!" her mother scolded her. "You're going to catch your death of a cold!"
Five-year-old Sydney, with matching brown pigtails, was skipping through the puddles in the driveway, twirling her child-sized umbrella in sweeping circles, around and around and around. All the sudden, she was being picked up and tossed into the air. She dropped her umbrella, but squealed in laughter because Sydney knew that it was her daddy. She heard her mother's exasperated voice, her father's answering chuckles, her own giggles, the neighbor's dog barking jealously that Sydney got to play outdoors in the rain—that she was getting to have all the fun.
So long ago, and yet it seemed just like yesterday. Her eyes blinked open to see him standing there, a smile on his face that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"This may not be your reality, Sydney Bristow. But I assure you, it's quite real." He spun on his heel and disappeared indoors as quietly as he'd appeared inside only moments ago.
She stormed after him, the slamming of the door behind her obviously catching him by surprise. She stalked up to him, the rain dripping down her face, off her chin and hair and fingertips, lending to the look of fury. "What is your reality, that you can just leave it locked up like it doesn't matter?" Every word was punctuated by a stab of her finger into his chest, a step forward for every step back he took, until he'd backed himself up to the window she'd sat before earlier. She lowered her voice. "You know so God-damned much about me, but I know nothing about you."
"Is that what this is about, Sydney? You? What you do and don't know? Your frustration? What's fair for you?"
"Bad move, Sark" she growled, her palms pressing his shoulders against the glass, her body pinning him in place. "Besides. I thought I told you not to call me that."
"Ah yes," he breathed. "But you didn't give me anything else to call you either, now did you?"
"How about my middle name, you pompous bastard? I'm sure you know what it is," she hissed, releasing him. His hands automatically smoothed over his clothing as he nodded in affirmation. "Sit," she ordered, pointing to the couch. He started to protest, but thought better of it when she glowered at him. He sat down, wary when she sat next to him, facing him with her feet tucked under Indian style.
"All right," he sighed. "What do you want to know?"
"Everything." She smiled when he grimaced unhappily.
Another sigh, a lengthy pause, and he began.
"Well. You're right about one thing at least—legally, I would be considered a bastard. At least, to my knowledge of my history, I would be. I grew up in an orphanage, overcrowded with other unwanted and abandoned children." His tone was matter of fact, like it didn't matter to him that his childhood had been what it was—no bedtime stories, no kisses on scrapped knees, no fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies waiting when he came home from school. But she knew that it couldn't have been as glossed over as he made it sound. Because, after six years old, Sydney Bristow might as well been an orphan for all her remaining parent cared.
Silence before he continued. "Like a good percentage of them, I wasn't born there, but rather, left on the doorstep when my mother found she couldn't care for the both of us. Nurse Bridget once told me that I was about the saddest sight she thought she'd ever seen—a twenty-two month old toddler on the orphanage front porch, tied to the railing by a dirty faded pink hair ribbon, with a note pinned to the brown corduroy jacket I didn't fit into until I was six." A pause. "At least you knew your mother." His voice was sad, and angry, reminiscent and wistful, lost. And Sydney knew, that in that moment, he'd let his guard down long enough to remember something he usually had buried deep and forced himself to forget. For one moment, he relived the pain and isolation.
She wanted to tell him that she understood more than she cared to, that she too had that ache deep in her heart. But instead, she questioned, "Did I really know my mother? After all, I was only six years old when she left. I'd only known her as the woman that put my hair in pigtails and packed little notes in my lunches. She wasn't yet a person to me. At six years old, you don't comprehend that your mother could be right and wrong too." She fell silent. How did you put into words that you still didn't understand that the woman who'd made you a frilly pink party dress for your fourth birthday was the same woman who'd betrayed her husband? That the woman who didn't think twice about killing other children's mothers and fathers had also left her own child motherless? Was the same woman who wanted Sydney to give birth to a child who wouldn't grow up knowing his or her mother.
"But isn't that all that really matters at that age? Being old enough to remember a name, a face, a smile, the sound of her voice, what she smelled like as she tucked you into bed? Knowing the story, if there is one, about how she met your father, why she named you what she did? I grew up in a world where very few had that. I had more than most just by having that damn hair ribbon that had belonged to her, and the note that listed my name and birth date. You can't tell me that was fair either." His gaze met hers in a challenge, and instead all he saw was comprehension, and worst of all, understanding.
She surprised him, and herself, when she asked "And just what is your name?"
"Ethan. Ethan McMillan."
She gave him a quizzical look. "Where'd the 'Mr. Sark' come from then?"
"Your mother."
"Oh." She propped her elbow on her right knee and dropped her chin into the palm of her hand. "I like it though."
"Like what?"
"Your name. Ethan," she said, testing the name out loud. She smiled at him. "It suits you."
"Thank you. I think." He couldn't resist smiling back.
"You know—" A yawn interrupted her. She shook her head and laughed. "You really do have a nice smile—when you use it." She took satisfaction in the startled look on his face. She stretched as she stood, calling back as she padded out of sight, "Good night, Ethan. See you in the morning."
"Good night," he softly said to a now empty room, before shaking his head and heading upstairs to his own room.
AN: leave me reviews!!!!!!!!!!!