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 (carmensandiego1) and Nicole (CG4) for the betas!
Authors Note: Well, whaddya know… it's been less than multiple months between chapters! That's like, a new record… well, new recent record… hee. Read. Enjoy. Review!
Larry had rescued her from the beach that day—the day that Ethan left and her world tipped topsy-turvy all over again. Larry didn't get too personal, and that really was just fine by Sydney. He served as her "watchdog" for all intensive purposes—making sure she at least attempted eating three meals a day, organized a pregnancy-friendly workout routine, and, oddly enough, he was also serving as her OB/GYN.
She had regarded very few people with the suspicion as she did Larry the day he informed her he would be performing an ultrasound. He'd gone on to reassure her that he'd had adequate training. It was a great source of amusement for her that her technology-savvy midwife was a beefy bodyguard who, irony of all ironies, was actually in possession of an IQ.
She'd asked to not hear or see anything he was doing—she thought it would be easier that way. All she wanted was that her baby at least be born healthy. All she needed was the comfort of the gentle swelling of her belly as a reminder. Everything else was unnecessary peripheral detail.
She missed him—Ethan. She missed the banter, the friendship, the comfortable routines they'd settled into. But mostly she just missed him. Because without him, nothing seemed special. That "nothing" encompassed her first, and likely to be only, pregnancy struck Sydney as infinitely sad.
Someday, her mother would pay for this.
**********
To all appearances, for those who cared to observe, it looked as if he'd settled back into his former life as if he'd never left it at all.
He spent a week catching up on three months worth of information. He paid special attention to SD-6, devoting another week of his time to closely inspecting their activity within the three-month time span. He'd been quite interested, but not surprised, to discover the still standing order for Sydney's death. What had surprised him was that the order had been made out as an open-ended contract, to pay whoever supplied SD-6 with her, dead or alive. He would have to take care of that, see if Sloane was interested in maybe working out a deal, or at the very least allowing the contract to be bought out.
And knowing he could do little else for Sydney than to keep an eye out for the people she cared for, he spent another week researching the status of Jack Bristow, Michael Vaughn, Will Tippin, and Francine Calfo. He'd laughed at how easy Will and Francie had been to find—the U.S. government had a long way to go before they learned the proper art of making people disappear.
This fourth week, he would devote to reestablishing himself with certain contacts with uncertain or too flexible loyalties. He'd allowed himself enough time to gain control of his anger and rage—pity the souls who would be on the receiving end of his need to cause destruction. It was time for Mr. Sark to return to the world in the way he best knew how—violence.
**********
On day one hundred and twenty-two, a month into her island solitude, Sydney found herself walking slowly, absorbing the unchanged details of the rooms she'd spent so much of her time in but had never really examined. A muted cream paint colored the walls, perfectly matching the color of the soft shag carpet beneath her bare feet. The furniture was covered in a darker shade of cream, patterned silk brocade that slid beneath her fingers when her hands settled on the back of the loveseat. She paused as she recalled details of that fateful forty-seventh day when she'd first entered this room.
A flash of light in her peripheral vision caught her attention, and Sydney turned towards it and faced the bedroom. Her curiosity aroused, she walked into the room she'd studiously avoided, facing the room of her happiest memories quicker than she otherwise would have.
Her breath caught in her throat when she finally was able to distinguish what had caught her eye. There, sitting in the middle of the neatly made bed, sat a beautifully wrapped present. No—not a present, nor a gift; both of those implied strings of emotional attachment, relationships, and human partiality that neither of them could afford to leave traces of. This box and its contents were not joyfully being given from benefactor to recipient. Ethan was not here to do so, and therefore it was just a box. A box housing something he'd intended her to have when she was able to face their past, as she was coming to do.
And yet, it was too beautiful to just be what she wanted it to be. It couldn't be just a box, wrapped as it was in a glinting metallic sapphire hue that was painfully reminiscent of Ethan's eyes when desire darkened them.
Her footsteps halting and painfully slow, Sydney neared the bed, gingerly sitting on the edge of the cream silk comforter. Tentatively her right hand reached out and she allowed her fingers to brush the pale blue bow that perfectly offset the wrapping paper. It was heavy in her hand when she finally grasped the edge and tugged it near. Her hands slipped under the box and gently transferred it to rest on her lap, where she stared dazedly at it for a moment.
When she'd finally found the courage to put her hand on the doorknob as she had been unable to do for the past three weeks, she'd hardly dared to wonder when she would find courage enough to open the door and enter the suite. Determination had played a large part in her actions today, to overcome the weakness she saw in herself and despised. And now, here she was, having to confront the completely unexpected, for she would never have thought he would leave something for her—it was too sentimental, too concrete and tangible when compared to breathy words and hushed declarations.
When nudged, the ribbon easily slipped off of the box. The lid was removed to reveal pale blue tissue paper that matched the bow and was so thin that Sydney wondered if it would disintegrate at her touch. It remained intact as she gently tugged it aside, the sound crinkling loudly in the silence. Nestled beneath the many layers of tissue paper lay a leather bound book. Her knuckles brushed softly against the cover before she lifted it free of the box. Her thumbs lightly caressed as her eyes assessed what she held. A deep midnight blue in color, the leather was soft and supple, of a quality she knew that designers lived to use. This gift, for she knew she could call it that now, had been expensive, but more importantly, it had been chosen with her in mind.
Sydney eased the cover back, her fingers trailing over the heavy page where an unfamiliar hand had written her full name on the solitary line. The tight, sharply slanted script belonged to him, she knew—one more piece of the enigma he was. She breathed in the unique blend of ink, leather, and new pages.
Sensing that he had left more in the book than just her name, she lifted the first page away, revealing that the page below was filled with more of the distinctively lettered words. She didn't want to read this, effectively his last words to her, but she began to anyway.
Knowing that I would have to leave you at some point, a strangely altruistic urging prompted my purchase of this journal for you long before our arrival. The purpose was not of sentimental origins, for we had yet to know each other. Solely, my intent was to give you an outlet when other resources were no longer available. And that time has arrived. Now, I only wish I could do more.
I never intended to love you, Sydney. You challenge me constantly, teaching me more about life, love and humanity than I'd ever dreamed I held the capacity to understand or acknowledge. Funny thing, isn't it, how I have never in my life wanted something so much as I want and need you.
Know that I do love you, and always will. Necessity dictates this course of action, for the rules of the game cannot be rewritten mid-game, not when you lack control of the outcome. This is my gift to you—preservation.
I hope that someday you will understand, and possibly forgive me.
Take care, Love.
Sobs filled the silence, and through the tears that streamed unchecked down her face Sydney watched in horror as a tear splattered on to the page, blurring the final word. She frantically grabbed at the hem of her T-shirt and used it in attempt to blot away the moisture. The effort was futile.
Now the page, and his tender term of endearment for her, was forever marred by her tears—just as she was.
**********
Sark had made the mistake of underestimating Jack Bristow's need for knowledge of his daughter's condition. While he was aware that his recent activity would have gained him certain recognition of his return to the status of dangerous individual, Sark hadn't quite counted on Jack Bristow hunting him down, especially in a public place such as a restaurant rather than a place more conducive to questioning.
"Derevko told me where I might locate you," the elder man said.
"Well, in that case, please," Sark motioned to the chair across from himself, "do join me." He tilted his head to the side, studying the man as he pulled the chair out and sat. He looked, well, older. Weary. Then again, he had not physically seen the man in four months. "I'm afraid I've already ordered, Jack—"
"I didn't come to eat."
"Why, then, are you here?" he asked pleasantly, reaching for the open wine bottle to refill his glass before offering the bottle, which Jack surprisingly took. "I'm assuming that, if Irina informed you where to find me, you're not here to take me into custody."
"No. Not that I wouldn't like to, but she made me give my word." Jack's mouth twisted in such a way that left nothing to interpret about what he thought about the situation. "I'm here inquiring as to my daughter's well-being. Derevko has continued to insist that she will not be released for awhile yet."
Genuinely puzzled, he protested, "But I have not seen Sydney in a month, sir. I'm not sure I can be the authority on her current condition."
Jack's eyes narrowed. "Don't be difficult, Sark. Your employer has spent the past four months assuring me that you were taking care of my daughter while she was in your custody. If I am to understand correctly what she was implying about your relationship with my daughter, I would hope you wouldn't be so careless as to rejoin the world without some way to maintain some semblance of surveillance of her." He settled back in his seat, took a sip of the wine he had poured for himself, a look of pleasant surprise flashing over his face before he trained his signature stone cold gaze on Sark again. "Now. What do you have to tell me about her?" he questioned in a way that was much more a demand than a request. It seemed Sydney had inherited that quality from both of her parents, really.
Considering he received status update calls from Larry, he would have been lying to continue the hypothesized scenario of ignorance. "She's fine—healthy, relaxed. Spends her time tanning and reading." He paused, wondering if he could trust Jack Bristow enough to detail any more. "Will any of this be relayed back to the CIA?"
"So far, everything, yes."
"If I asked for your word to not repeat certain things, I could tell you more."
Jack straightened in his chair. "I'm listening."
"Your word, if you please, Mr. Bristow."
He sighed, too dignified to roll his at the technicality of the formality. "You have my word."
Sark hesitated a moment, knowing this was a moment that could never be retrieved and could possibly put him in deep hot water with Irina if Jack connected the dots. Finally, he gazed elsewhere as he quietly informed Sydney's father "She's pregnant. About 11 weeks along, I believe." The silence became deadly and he finally returned his gaze to Jack, who, though quiet, looked immensely angry and dangerous.
"If my daughter's pregnant and you fathered that child, what the hell are you doing here?" It was delivered quietly, and there was no denying the accusation.
"You mean, why did I leave her? Why am I not there with her? Well, sir, I'm afraid you'd have to ask your wife about those details. I was not privy to them."
Jack stood, buttoning his suit jacket with one hand as another pulled a piece of paper from his pants pocket. "If there's anything else I need to be informed about regarding Sydney, you can reach me at this number." The paper, which turned out to be a business card, was dropped next to Sark's wine glass. "My word still holds for future information." With that, the man was gone.
A most interesting encounter, Sark mused, picking up his wine glass and swirling the liquid, staring into its depths contemplatively. Yes, most interesting…
**********
For a week, Sydney glanced at the journal sitting on her bedside table. Occasionally she ran her fingers across the surface, wishing she were caressing his face instead. Finally she dared to open it again where her name written in his hand on the page mesmerized her.
It was another three days before she had the courage to take a pen to the first blank page.
Her words were tentative at first. But as days passed, she began to face the truth as words poured forth from the deepest, darkest places in her heart. Truths—of her, of him, of her parents, her circumstances, and even the few wishes she hoped for her unborn child and her future—were written, left as a permanent commemoration of fleeting thoughts representing the rainbow of her life.
Despite it all, she only loved him more at the end of the day.
**********
Little changed for Sydney in the passing days and weeks and months. She still missed him. She still cried for no reason at all. Her belly continued to grow, and Larry continued to watch after her.
After finding the first gift, she had become a little more adventurous in her exploration of the house—and her confrontation of her memories. The gifts had a curious ability to simultaneously make her want to cry and laugh.
There had been a memory diary under the den couch.
She found a new bottle of sun block hidden in her medicine cabinet.
Maria had unending stores of jars of pickles of all varieties and canned tuna fish, as well as the most comprehensive collection of sparkling juices and flavored waters she'd ever seen. Sydney still smiled, albeit a bit sadly, at dinner when a wine glass of a non-alcoholic beverage was served with her meal.
She discovered a room filled with instruments and accompanying beginner's instruction manuals. She'd wondered if he'd gone mad till she found a note teasing her that their baby should be musically cultured if nothing else.
No matter what else she found, Sydney felt pretty secure in thinking that nothing could be a better gift than the journal. Except maybe Ethan's return—that would be better than any material gift he could have left behind.
If not for the promise she'd made to him, Sydney may have contemplated an existence other than this one… Without Ethan, she could take no pleasure in the pregnancy. And because of her mother, Rambaldi, and a fucking probably fake prophecy, the end result made caring about so many things pointless to a degree of desolation she had never before known existed.
**********
Michael Vaughn was surprised when he received a phone call from Jack Bristow. But when all Jack said was, "You need to move on with your life, Agent Vaughn. Forget about my daughter," Michael was inclined to sit in stunned silence until a passing concerned coworker stepped into his cubicle and removed the phone from his hand. There were only two possibilities: Sydney was dead, or somehow she'd moved on with her life without him.
AN: Don't forget to review! Gimme a reason to get the last (yes I said last) chapter written…