I had a name, records, details, and more to the point I had an old address
for one Sydney Bristow. As I had said to Fee, this time we had truly hit
pay dirt.
I fed the address into the California DMV. Unsurprisingly it was no longer current, but a quick search gave me a new address for one Bristow, S, in San Diego, CA.
I sat and read Fee's downloaded files for hours before crashing on the coach, brain spinning and eyes glazed. The woman who was my grandmother made Machiavelli look innocent. If I was to believe this dossier she had a finger in every pie, from arms trading to amateur archaeology. And who was this Rambaldi geezer anyway? But I was far more interested in the small traces of my Mother's life that twinned in and out of the documentation, teasingly hinting at before petering off to nothing. I learned that my maternal grandfather Jonathon Bristow, had also worked for the CIA, and that Irina Derevko, posing as an American college student, had been married to him for 7 years. Also that she was ex-KGB. The bullets just kept on coming.
But there was little mention of my mother initially, bar a notation that Laura and Jonathon Bristow, had one child, a girl: Sydney.
I was sickened by the deaths my grandmother had caused, but not surprised. My Dad may have kept me sheltered, but he never kept me stupid, and I had been aware of the world and its darker elements from a very early age. His philosophy had always been forewarned is forearmed, and from an early age I had associated and been introduced to a very wide range of people with an interesting variety of skills. Indeed the one woman my father trusted as my nanny was an ex-MI6 agent. And I lost the few illusions I had been allowed to keep when I was 11 and someone took a try at my Dad at the house during the night. That ended with the intruder's dead body on the living room floor, but his blood and brains splattered all over my face. After that and my subsequent nightmares my Dad beefed up security considerably. But I didn't go to therapy. I was a Sark, and therapy was for wimps. Instead he got me another martial arts trainer and added knife work to my already extensive curriculum. After a few months of gutting an imaginary opponent the nightmares diminished. I was a very practically orientated little girl.
That older part of the file finished abruptly with the reporting of Laura Bristow's "death". But when I moved onto the period dating from around 2002 it became suddenly more interesting.
Irina Derevko had been an unheralded walk in to the CIA in 2002, but had insisted she be debriefed only by Sydney Bristow, confirmed to be her daughter. The dry facts left tantalising hints, and without the video and audio files I was left frustrated and almost physically champing at the bit. I would have loved to have seen the dynamics of an interview between mother and daughter. After that there were mentions of more debriefings, a mission that all three Bristows had gone on, various snippets, and then nothing. The file just stopped. Just the bare notation that the Irina Derevko file was henceforth suspended. What had happened? Where had she gone? Was she still imprisoned by the CIA? And what had happened to my Mother in the meantime? It was clear that she was working for the CIA at the time, but I had been born in 2004 and there was no mention of my Dad anywhere in Irina Derevko's file. And he had been, by his own admission her right hand up until my birth. How had my Mum met my Dad? Why was I here?
I felt like the bastardised offspring of some fucked up version of Romeo and Juliet. Where did I go from here? I knew I would never be able to get on with life until I had some answers and I had hit rock bottom with this avenue. And much as he loved me I knew my Dad would never talk about it. It was a taboo subject for him. So that really only left one option. I had to go to the source.
I had to go and visit my Mother.
*********
It was still dark outside and the only illumination came from the dim glow of the alarm clock on the bedside table. Sark was still wrapped around her like a comfort blanket, although she sometimes wondered who was comforting who. Whatever little she had learned about Andrew Sark in the last 10 months, it was clear by omission that his childhood certainly hadn't been all puppies and roses. Not that he would ever talk about it. Some barriers were still as high as ever.
She eased herself out of his arms, careful not to disturb him, as she crossed the room to the bathroom. He stirred faintly as she switched on the light, the illumination spilling from behind the door highlighting his face and causing him to turn on his side and bury his face under the pillows before falling back into sleep. That at least had changed. As little as a few months ago he would have woken up at any movement, but now he trusted her to watch his back. That at least was solid between them.
She closed the door behind her and dug out the package where she had hidden it earlier and sat down to read the instructions.
The requisite 3 minutes later she was sitting on the toilet seat in a state of shock. Pink. It wasn't meant to be pink. She'd been careful. Didn't this mean it couldn't be pink? She shook the wand frantically, but it stayed defiantly pink. Baby pink.
Baby. She was pregnant. She couldn't be pregnant. Not now. Not ever. She had never even thought about being pregnant since Danny. And with Sark's child?
She had felt a little sick on their last mission, but had put it down to a dodgy Chinese, like the one that had made her sick the month before. She bit her lip as it all made sense. Dodgy Chinese, being sick, being on the Pill. A bad combination all round, and Lady Luck had just rolled the dice against her.
She tentatively put her hand on her stomach. She was pregnant. And with the child of the man sleeping next door. And she didn't know what he would feel, or think, or even to be honest what she felt or thought about it. All she knew was the thought that there might be life somewhere inside her, that she might be able to produce something that wasn't connected with death and pain, gave her a strange wobbly feeling deep inside.
She sat and stared at the wand for another few minutes until the colour slowly faded from the little window. Then she methodically destroyed all traces of her little experiment and flushed the remnants down the toilet. As she slipped back into bed and Sark's arm automatically came out to snuggle her closer all she could think about was the possibility of a child, a smiling child, a laughing boy with fair hair, and burning hazel eyes, playing in the sunlight. Sark's child. Her child. What was she going to do?
*********************
Of course the minute I actually realised what I had to do all my motivation to actually do it went out of the window. It had all seemed so easy until I actually took the time to consider what it would mean. I didn't know this woman. She didn't know me. And I was just meant to appear on her doorstep and chirpily announce, "Hi - I'm your long lost daughter! Remember me?" Not a cunning plan. I shifted uncomfortably on the couch. But at this rate it might be my only option. I rubbed my eyes. 24 hours on the go and a life altering decision didn't go well together. I would sleep on it. Maybe when I was thinking properly another solution would become apparent.
The next thing I knew there were streamers of bright sunlight leaking through the blinds and Fee was bashing on my bedroom door. I pulled myself up from another bizarre dream about talking fish (what was it with me and fish these days anyway?) and groggily sat up in bed, trying to pull my hair into some semblance of order. I had horrible morning mouth, and god I needed a coffee.
"What?" I screamed, or tried to scream. It came out more of a croak.
"'Lena - get up!"
I scowled at the closed door.
"Do I disturb your sleep? Bugger off!"
The door creaked open and Fee's frantically screwed up face peered around the edge.
"'Lena, you have to get up NOW!"
I wasn't convinced.
"Why?"
Her face screwed up even more and she made a jerky head motion towards the living room.
"Your Dad's here. And he looks serious."
That got me up.
*********************
Syd spent the next week in a state of complete distraction. She could tell that Sark noticed, but unexpectedly tolerant he didn't mention it. Although every so often she did catch him watching her, forehead creased in concern. But he had obviously decided to let her handle her own concerns in her own way.
Any other time she would have appreciated that, but now she felt like she was wearing a big sign on her head that screamed "conflicted!" and all she really wanted was for him to sit her down and demand the truth. But he didn't and so she spent the rest of the week getting more and more confused and anxious.
For Sark it was a strange week. Syd had started out distracted, quickly descended into absentminded and went downwards from there. Every night she snuggled into him desperately like he was the last solid thing on earth, but during the day her expression was often so far away he wondered if she even heard what he said. It wasn't until he caught her completely mistranslating the plans for their latest mission that he realised he was going to have to find out what was bothering her, if only for their personal safety. If she was distracted on the mission she might get both of them killed.
He automatically considered several convoluted approaches, and eventually decided that in this case, the direct attack might just work best.
"Sydney." Syd looked up, startled. She had been so far away in thought she hadn't even heard him come in the room. He was leaning against the door jamb, black sweater and combat trousers almost blending into the shadows. She smiled faintly. He did so love black. Assassin chic, she called it.
"Hhmm?"
"Syd, I think we have to talk."
At his words her mind immediately went into overtime. Talk - had he found out? Did he know? He couldn't have. But then if not - what did he need to talk about? For Sark it was almost dizzying watching every emotion flood across her face in quick time. She looked scared. That concerned him. In every mission they had done together, whether as partners or rivals he had yet to see her afraid. But now at a few words from him she was terrified. Abruptly he abandoned his plan and crossed over to crouch in front of her, taking her hands in his. Her hands were like ice and he frowned in concern, rubbing them with his warm ones to heat them. When he looked up she was staring down at him like he had come to arrange her execution. Something was definitely wrong.
"Syd, I don't want to pressure you, but I'm not blind. Something's wrong. What is it?"
All she could think of as she looked down into his blue eyes was escape. Fight or flight, just what her body knew best. But she knew she couldn't run away from this, no matter how much she wanted to. But how to say it - what to do? Undecided she pulled her hands from his and got up to pace, needing to move, while he took her place on the couch, watching her with keen eyed attention. She didn't even know how to start. She couldn't ever remember being this scared. But waiting didn't make it any easier. So she turned to face him.
"Sar.Andrew - do you ever think about family?"
He frowned, puzzled. Where was she going with this?
"Yes..."
"Do you remember what it's like to be in one?"
Now he was truly confused. But she was obviously trying to say something so he decided to humour her.
"I wasn't born fully grown, Syd," he commented in his driest tones. She knew he didn't like to speak about his parents. She blushed and shook her head in frustration.
"What I mean to say is - have you ever wanted to part of one?"
Perhaps she was missing her Father and her friends. Although what that had to do with this he couldn't fathom. Women were an enigma wrapped in a mystery and this one more than most. "I can't say I've really thought about it much. Why?"
She crossed over and kneeled in front of him, unconsciously mirroring the position he had taken a few minutes before, putting her hands on his knees. Her brown eyes were wide and very earnest.
"I think you might have to think about it soon." He cocked an eyebrow in confusion. What on earth was she talking about? And then it dawned on him.
For Syd it was like watching a dam break. She had never believed she would ever see the impenetrable Sark genuinely caught off guard. A small internal part of her did cartwheels in jubilation, while the rest of her quailed in reaction. He grasped at her hands convulsively and she bit her lips not to flinch at the sudden pressure. For a minute they sat, both frozen in time, and then Sark took a deep breath and centred himself. He slipped a hand free and put it to her cheek and she immediately turned her face into it, nuzzling at his palm, her eyes closed.
"Syd - are you trying to tell me that you're pregnant?"
She nodded against his palm, her heart too full to speak.
He sat back, pulling her up onto his lap, momentarily flummoxed. She curled up against his chest like a kitten and his arms tightened around her reflexively.
"Right. Just give me a minute, sweetheart. I might have to think about this one for a while."
And curled against his chest Syd nodded her head in definite, frantic agreement. They both had to think about this one for a while.
*********************
I took the time to pull on a pair of jeans and an old sloppy Joe. I loved my Dad and I'd never once been scared of him but it was always strategically a good decision to face him fully armed, so to speak.
He was lounging back on the coach, dressed in his customary black. I used to tease him about it when I was younger. He always deflected my comments with a muttered "assassin chic" and a little half smile that I could never quite figure out. But these days it was just what he always wore, as much as part of him as his skin. My Dad - the perpetual mourner. Fee had brought him a coffee and he was regarding the beverage with the suspicion he normally reserved for large explosives. No Columbian mountain blends for Fee and me. Nope - we lived on Jolt coffee - extra strength. He raised an ironic eyebrow at me as I crossed to drop a kiss on his cheek before curling up in the armchair opposite.
"I pay for an extremely expensive education and then you go and fry your brain with this swill."
I just smirked back as I quickly downed half of my "swill" in a few gulps. The caffeine hit my system like a blast of cold water.
"At least it's legal. Unlike other drugs I could be using."
"True." He regarded me for a moment in silence.
"Elena, I know what you've been doing."
I stiffened, before I made myself relax. He couldn't know, not unless Fee had told him, and I know she never would have. She'd be too scared of his reaction. He must mean something else. I racked my brain to think of any indiscretion that would warrant this visit. But before I could finish the thought his voice broke into my musings.
"No I don't mean anything else, and yes, I do mean your search for your Mother." I just gawped at him. How could he know that?
He shook his head at me in an admonishing gesture.
"Sweetheart, you should have learned by now that I can read everything you're thinking just by watching your face."
I was still gaping at him. Was I truly that transparent?
"Don't worry. It's probably just me. I have had 20 years to study you. But it's a trait you shared - share -with your mother."
I closed my mouth with a snap. Was he actually acknowledging my mother in the present tense? And talking about her without being begged for every scrap of information? Suddenly I had the urge to check for pod people. It was definitely Invasion of the Body Snatchers.
"Twenty years ago I had tags created on the files of 3 individuals in the CIA main database. I'm sure you can work out who they were."
I just nodded silently: Sydney Bristow, Jonathon, or Jack Bristow and Irina Derevko. "Yesterday I received notification that an outside source had hacked into Irina's files" I noticed how he called her Irina. Casually, familiarly, as though the woman wasn't an assassin and murderer. And my grandmother to boot.
"I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised when my sources traced the intrusion back to Fiona's computer." His voice was absolutely neutral, and I stared fixedly at the rug, filled with a strange mixture of relief and shame. I didn't even hear him move, but the next minute there were firm fingers pulling up my chin, forcing me to look him straight in the eyes.
"'Lena."
I couldn't look him straight in the face and tried to squirm my chin out from his hold. With a slight shake of his head he firmly tugged my face up again. "'Lena, look at me." He was frowning, small lines creasing on his forehead and I realised suddenly that he looked.tired. And wounded in some way I had never noticed before.
"You are my daughter and I never, ever want you to feel you can't look me in the eyes. Got that?" He gave my chin a small shake. I nodded against his hand.
"I guessed that you wouldn't leave it with the information you have now." There was a new note I couldn't read in his voice. Amused acknowledgment touched with something else. I ducked my head in embarrassment.
"However I must admit I didn't expect you to get to it this quickly." I looked up at him bashfully, taken back by the small smile that played across his mouth for a second before disappearing.
"But you are my daughter, and with the rest of your background being as it is, I suppose I shouldn't have expected anything less." There was that note again. I frowned as I tried to identify what he wasn't saying. And then as I gazed up at him and his hand touched my cheek gently I realised what it was. Pride. He was proud of me. After all the emotion of the last 36 hours it was too much and my bottom lip started to tremble. He ran a caressing hand over my cheek and stood up, pulling an envelope out of his pocket, firmly tucking one of my hands around it. I could still feel the phantom trails of his fingers on my skin, although the warmth was quickly fading. "I can't tell you what you need to know." He tucked his hands into his pockets and looked down at me. "I can't rake up the past like that, bear cub. But I know you need to know." He leaned down and pressed a kiss to my forehead. "Just do one thing for me sweetheart. When all this is finished, promise me you'll come back home." I had to swallow the lump in my throat to answer him and my voice came out thin and thready.
"I promise, Daddy. I'll come home."
He nodded half to himself, reached out to touch my hair affectionately, and left without a further word.
I opened the envelope.
When Fee came in two minutes later she found me in a puddle of tears, curled up in the armchair. Before she could ask what was wrong I waved the contents of the envelope at her. US Dollar travellers' cheques, a platinum visa card in my name.
And two first class round tickets to San Diego, California.
*********************
They had curled up together in their bed, neither willing to start the conversation that they needed to have. Instead they focused on the moment, the rise and fall of breath, and the warmth and steadiness of the other. Eventually Sydney couldn't bear the silence any longer. "Andrew? What are we going to do?"
She rolled onto her back to look at him as he propped himself up on his elbow to regard her. The fire light turned his chest to a mass of angles and shades and her hand twitched to reach out and caress him. She knew every inch of that skin now, all those lines of bone and muscles, had mapped every plane with hands and tongue, but sometimes she still craved the taste of his skin with a passion that was almost reckless. He was her drug of choice and she was addicted.
He took his time in answering, staring at her face as if he was memorising her from the inside out.
"What do you want to do?"
She frowned at him. If she knew what she wanted to do she wouldn't be asking him, would she?
"I don't know."
He looked momentarily frustrated and shook his head in dismissal.
"Sydney, I don't mean what you should do. If you were in an ideal situation and you got pregnant, what would you do?"
She hesitated, torn between conflicting impulses, good sense warring against instinct.
"I." He saw her hesitation and pressed her.
"Would you keep this child? Would you get an abortion?" He leaned in closer, pushing his weight against her, pressurising her. She frowned and tried to wriggle away, but he trapped her wrists with his hands and her body with his weight and held her immobile. "Just answer me right now - would you keep this child?"
She was upset now, not liking the restraint or the pressure. All she wanted to do was run, as had always been her wont. But he wouldn't let her escape.
"I don't know!"
"Do you want this child? Answer me!"
Pushed beyond her comfortable limits she snarled up at him. "Yes - I want this child. But I can't keep it, because it's yours!"
They both froze for a second, acknowledging the uncomfortable truth of her words, regrouping. Syd ceased her resistance and looked at him anxiously. Then Sark pulled back a little, releasing her wrists, curling an arm around her shoulders, pulling her in closer. His face was shuttered and thoughtful. They were silent for a few minutes. "I've been thinking over our situation. It's not ideal, I grant you."
Curled against him, Syd snorted in exasperation at that understatement. "But I believe that if we can work together we can overcome most of the obstacles. We have another 12 months before we are due back at SD-6. More than enough time for the baby to be born and for.arrangements. to be made."
She wasn't too sure if she had just heard what she had thought she'd heard.
Scrambling around in the bed she propped herself up, looking down at Sark, reversing their positions.
"Are you telling me you want this child?" she demanded incredulously. Of all the responses she had expected, this was certainly the least predictable.
He looked up at her, lifting a hand to touch her cheek, his eyes ice blue and unreadable and hesitated before going on.
"Yes. I want this child. I'll respect your decision if you choose otherwise. But for myself - I could think of no one else I'd ever want a child more with."
She stared down at him in blank shock. From Sark, this was more than a proposal of marriage.
"But we can't." She cast around wildly for words to even describe the magnitude of the foolishness of the path they were considering. "The security risks, the protocols."
"Fuck the protocols." His voice was a low growl that sent shivers down her spine. "Why should we never have children like any one else? Why do we have to have no family?" Unspoken it hung on the air - why are we always alone?
"But the hostage risk, my family, SD-6." She was almost hyperventilating and he sat up and took her shoulders firmly, his eyes very intent.
"You once said to me that you felt like we were in a bubble for the duration of this mission, right?" At her uncertain nod he continued.
"We are still in this bubble. We will remain in it for the duration of your pregnancy, even after the birth. Just you and me, Syd. Just us, no one else. No one else matters."
He was giving her a look of almost laser beam intensity. "And once our time is up, I promise, by then I will have things sorted out. I promise you this; if you have this child I will give my life to see that it remains unhurt. I swear this. Do you understand me?"
Caught by the fire in his eyes she could only nod mutely. There was a world of emotion in his face as though a great dam had broken. She felt powerless in the face of the onslaught. And also she wanted this child. Her child, Sark's child, their son or daughter. Her free hand slid down to rest gently on the curve of her stomach and his followed hers, fingers entwining against the soft skin of her abdomen. She swallowed convulsively, trying to speak past the lump in her throat.
"You promise on your life that you'll protect this baby? That whatever happens we can work something out?"
She looked him straight in the eyes, looking for any sign of hesitation and reluctance. But there was none, just blue fire blazing back at her, more passion in him than she had ever seen before.
"I promise. I swear it."
Syd took a deep breath. "Then I'll have this baby. I'll give us a child, Sark" And she was almost bowled over by the force of desire and pride in his eyes as he seized her mouth roughly and pushed her back onto the bed, intent of demonstrating to her by touch all the things he was too crippled to say aloud.
*********************
I had my father's blessing. And frankly, that scared me more than anything else. For the next two days I was completely frozen by indecision, unable to move forwards or backwards. It was Fee who finally took matters into her own hands and catapulted events into motion.
I was sitting watching the TV mindlessly when she abruptly slapped the two tickets down in front of me. When I picked them up I noticed they had been validated for travel in three days. I opened my mouth to protest, but she stopped me with a waggled finger.
"I have been watching you mope around here for the last two days, and since you seem constitutionally incapable of making a decision I've taken it out of your hands. We are flying out of here in three days, you are going to go and see your mother, while I'll go to Seaworld. And then finally perhaps both of us can get on with life as we know it!"
In the face of such righteous indignation all I could do was nod assent.
*********************
All their significant moments seemed to happen at night. Perhaps it was simply the fundamental nature of their relationship. Sark shrugged off the thought and firmly curled his arm around Sydney, hugging her closer to his body. Her hair splayed out in a fan across his chest, the trailing tendrils of it tingling on his nerve endings. Absently he wrapped a piece around his free hand, disturbing and then smoothing the silken texture back into submission. She wasn't completely asleep, he could tell that much, but her body was totally pliant in his arms, trusting.
He was still somewhat awed by that trust, even when he had spent over a year earning it. He rang a light, caressing finger along her shoulder, smiling when she murmured sleepily in response. She was not a woman to do any thing by halves, was Sydney Bristow. Having decided to trust, she trusted absolutely, having decided to love she did so without holding back.
He fervently hoped he would never have to break that faith.
It had some unexpected joys, being with her. She was loyal beyond reason or thought. In defence of those she considered hers there was no one fiercer, a veritable falcon in the dive. And she was a great cook. Although on the rare occasions they had a chance to cook for themselves they tended to fight for the duty, as Sark considered himself somewhat gifted in that area as well. And behind that well brought up exterior she had a wicked sense of humour.
And when it came to sex the intensity of her passion was almost frightening. For many other men it would have been intimidating, but not for Sark. He had long ago released his inhibition in those areas. It had been said that what was necessary for the authentic experience of life was the confrontation of death, and while he didn't quite subscribe to that philosophy he understood the meaning behind it. Everyday he was alive could be his last, and a consequence he worked to truly live and experience in a way few could match. And so every night she was with him he loved her as though there was no tomorrow. Because for them there might not be.
The firelight was gilding her skin, accents of fox-gold on alabaster, casting accents on her hair, turning it into a nimbus of auburn tinged mink. He leaned down to drop a delicate kiss on her collarbone and she stirred sleepily, turning in his arms, blinking up at him from half opened lashes. The firelight caught the glitter of her eyes under the lids as a little half frown reflectively furrowed her forehead.
"Andrew?" Her murmur was still half conscious, not really coherent as yet. "What's wrong?"
He leaned down and kissed her forehead gently, shifting as she curled up on his chest, taking her hand and entwining their fingers.
"Nothing. Just thinking."
She frowned a little more. "Too late for thinking. You think too much anyway. Go to sleep."
"Soon, leannan."
She smiled sleepily at the endearment, curling even closer, her head over his heart. "Tell me a story."
He closed his eyes for a moment. It was at times like this, in the small hours, when his defences were weakest. And sometimes the smallest thing she did could pierce him to the core. Leannan. Sweetheart. One of the few things he could remember from his mother, before she had been ripped out of his life. And his own response as he went to sleep each night. Tell me a story, Mummy.
He put out a not altogether steady hand to stroke her hair as she sighed in contentment.
"Not a story. My stories aren't bedroom ones, leannan."
She muttered faintly in protest, still more than half asleep. He smiled faintly in response and continued stroking her hair, soothing her back into sleep. But as she fell into unconsciousness she was sure she heard his voice at the edge of awareness, rhythm, pattern and melody blending in to create a hypnotic lull.
For Sark, that night would be one that he held precious for many years to come, this woman who had crept inside his defences in his arms, her body carrying his child, and the firelight blessing them both. And over it all the words of his favourite poet providing the release for all the things he felt too crippled to say.
FASTEN your hair with a golden pin,
And bind up every wandering tress;
I bade my heart build these poor rhymes:
It worked at them, day out, day in,
Building a sorrowful loveliness
Out of the battles of old times.
You need but lift a pearl-pale hand,
And bind up your long hair and sigh;
And all men's hearts must burn and beat;
And candle-like foam on the dim sand,
And stars climbing the dew-dropping sky,
Live but to light your passing feet.
********************
It was the longest flight of my life. Even with the reassuring presence of Fee beside me, busy guzzling every comfort that first class had to offer. I couldn't sleep, dozens of possible scenarios running through my brain. Would she reject me, try to slam the door in my face, profess ignorance of my existence? Or worse would she simply not see me at all, too caught up in some happy home life she had created, a domestic goddess for the twenty first century. What would she think of me? After all I wasn't exactly dream long lost daughter material. My temper was too sharp and my sense of humour sharper, my body still felt like it was rebelling against my control and hey, I brought all the baggage of being the daughter of a man famous for some very dubious incidents plus her lost lover to boot. Not exactly an easy package to swallow.
*******************
What had been fairly simple now escalated in complexity. Every mission had to be triple planned, every contact double checked, the safety of more than themselves risked with every outing. As her body ripened Syd found her attitudes changing to match. Every time she lay against him in their bed, mapped the peace in his face as he slept with a hand curled against her abdomen her resolve sharpened. This was her time - her mate, her child and by God she would bring them all through to the other side as intact as possible. And every day Sark looked at her and saw the shadow of Irina Derevko run closer to the surface of Sydney Bristow as she focused her whole being on their survival, morality and leniency be damned.
But there were lighter moments too - when Sark managed to get Cherry Garcia ice cream shipped in at exorbitant cost to satisfy her cravings, leading to ridiculous tussles over the spoon and love play that left Ben & Jerry's splashed over the walls. Or when she would create disgusting sandwich combinations that had him gagging and pretending to retch at the smell of her breath. But he always kissed her anyway.
For Sark the whole thing still seemed strangely unreal, as though he would wake and realise one morning that she wasn't there, that it had all been some dream turned nightmare by the emptiness of the bed beside him. So paradoxically as she grew fiercer he grew gentler with her, inwardly terrified that he would wake up one morning and she, and their child, would be gone. And as he grew gentler the ferocity of her caring for him grew, until every mission when she couldn't be beside him was a source of endless tension and concern.
For as her body changed Syd had had to accept a more sedentary role in their missions, acting as his all seeing eyes, calling out the shots from the comparative safety of her snipers position. But he always felt her at his back, connected by more then a spiral of wire, invisible wings of fierce protectiveness blanketing him in a way he hadn't felt since his mother died. And whenever he stumbled her voice was there to show him the right path to take, the right person to kill, the safe way to come back to her and their child in one piece.
And the only thing that shadowed their weird idyllic interlude was the awareness that time was rapidly running out for the both of them.
******************
I fretted all the way through the taxi ride, the plane journey and the limo ride to the five star hotel (my Dad never did anything by halves). By the end of fifteen hours in my company Fee was ready to rip my head off and stuff somewhere unmentionable. But I couldn't help it. How was I supposed to do this thing? Should I just walk up to her door and knock? Or leave a message? Send a letter? Call? For once in my over achieving life I had no clue what to do.
******************
He smiled as he watched her dressing in front of the mirror. The necessity for cold weather clothing during the winter in Khurdistan had been a blessing. Nothing disguised a pregnant woman like a large bulky fur coat and Syd had become increasingly adept at using them to hide her condition. But just now she was still dressed in her normal overlarge sweats and Sloppy Joes and the light silhouetted the rich curves of her breasts and belly that at 7 months were becoming increasingly prominent.
They hadn't been able to risk the normal barrage of tests that a Western expectant mother would have had, forced by their peculiar circumstances to rely on a few medical textbooks and Sydney's athletes awareness of her changing body. But he hadn't been able to resist buying a copy of "What to expect when you are expecting" through the Net and it had turned into a great source of light relief, one that cracked Syd up every time she caught him reading it. Assassin chic indeed. At this rate his image was voluntarily going to be in tatters.
He smiled wryly at the thought, gathering Sydney's coat from the bed behind her and holding it up so she could slip her arms more easily into the heavy fur. She anxiously checked the draw on the two guns she had concealed in the lining, fretting until he put his arms around her, their joined hands resting on her swollen abdomen, her anxious face reflected in the mirror.
"It'll be fine."
"It's our last briefing, Sark. We've only got six months left."
He pulled her gently against him as he acknowledged the truth of her statement. "It's enough. It'll all be okay leannan. Don't fret."
She spun in his grasp to face him, leaning in so he felt the press of her belly between them.
"It's not fine Andrew! It's my Father this time! Not just Sloane. And I look like this!"
She gesticulated wildly at her stomach, eyes more than a little unnerved, hair flying everywhere.
He smoothed the errant strands behind her ear.
"Nothing is going to happen, Syd. Don't worry. Just stay in your coat and keep as far away from your father as possible." He pressed his lips to her forehead. "Thank god you're not exactly a touchy-feely family."
She managed to drag up a lopsided smile for that. "Yeah. At least he won't be expected a hug."
Sark shuddered inwardly at how disastrous that would be. Holstering the last of his armoury he mentally assumed the persona of Ruslan Baranov once more, by now so familiar it was like slipping on a comfortable pair of slippers. Then, free hand near his gun and the other in the hollow of his "wife's" back they set out for the rendezvous point.
This would work. It had to.
******************
Fee had as she had promised "buggered off to Seaworld", leaving me sitting in the hotel room in a state of complete indecisiveness. I knew that eventually my own inactivity would piss me off enough that I would do something. Which was how after 2 hours of examining the décor in my room I found myself hailing a cab and directing it to take me to Banner Avenue, where at number 32 there lived a Bristow, Sydney.
******************
Sark looked up from the plans he was translating. From the silence he had suspected as much - she had fallen asleep again. These days she tired easily, very little exertion instantly sending her off to slumber. It meant that the lion's share of their work fell on him but he couldn't bring himself to begrudge her that when he saw the exhaustion that carrying their child was piling on her slender frame.
He padded into the bedroom and grabbed a blanket, tucking it around her where she dozed on the living room couch. Her eyes threatened to open for a minute before she gave up the battle and fell deeper into slumber. The baby was really taking it out of her.
Sark went back to his translation, occasionally looking up to rest his eyes on the sleeping figure of his woman. With the final rendezvous with Sloane and Jack Bristow successfully scaled the only obstacle left was ensuring that he, Syd and the child would come through this entire experience in one piece. And he had some plans for that. And by God no one would stand in his way. Not Irina, not Sloane, and not Jack Bristow and the entire bloody CIA. And if they tried - well - there was a reason for his reputation.
If anyone had been watching they might have shuddered at the way the normally expressive eyes went ice like and opaque as Sark thought about what he would do to anyone who would dare to try and harm his child or its mother.
******************
Well, here I was. When the taxi had pulled up to the corner I had sat frozen for long enough that the driver had had to snap at me to get me to move. I had thrust a bundle of bills at him and he had driven off, throwing me a disgusted look. No doubt he thought I was a complete nutter.
It seemed a fairly typical Californian suburb, all carefully watered green vegetation and white painted bungalows.
I examined the house in front of me dubiously. Yup - definitely the right address. But it certainly didn't look like the house of an ex-superspy. I mentally shrugged. I couldn't talk. If you believed half the rumours about my Dad he should be living in Dracula's Castle in deepest Transylvania, not on a rather nice estate in deepest Surrey.
I loitered around on the pavement for a few minutes, still unsure if this was a sensible thing to do. Suddenly I really wished my Dad was with me. I never suffered from this kind of confusion when he was around. Admittedly if he was here now none of this would be necessary in the first place. God, I needed to get my arse in gear and stop wool-gathering. I shook my head in frustration and slipped through the garden gate before I could change my mind.
*****************
I fed the address into the California DMV. Unsurprisingly it was no longer current, but a quick search gave me a new address for one Bristow, S, in San Diego, CA.
I sat and read Fee's downloaded files for hours before crashing on the coach, brain spinning and eyes glazed. The woman who was my grandmother made Machiavelli look innocent. If I was to believe this dossier she had a finger in every pie, from arms trading to amateur archaeology. And who was this Rambaldi geezer anyway? But I was far more interested in the small traces of my Mother's life that twinned in and out of the documentation, teasingly hinting at before petering off to nothing. I learned that my maternal grandfather Jonathon Bristow, had also worked for the CIA, and that Irina Derevko, posing as an American college student, had been married to him for 7 years. Also that she was ex-KGB. The bullets just kept on coming.
But there was little mention of my mother initially, bar a notation that Laura and Jonathon Bristow, had one child, a girl: Sydney.
I was sickened by the deaths my grandmother had caused, but not surprised. My Dad may have kept me sheltered, but he never kept me stupid, and I had been aware of the world and its darker elements from a very early age. His philosophy had always been forewarned is forearmed, and from an early age I had associated and been introduced to a very wide range of people with an interesting variety of skills. Indeed the one woman my father trusted as my nanny was an ex-MI6 agent. And I lost the few illusions I had been allowed to keep when I was 11 and someone took a try at my Dad at the house during the night. That ended with the intruder's dead body on the living room floor, but his blood and brains splattered all over my face. After that and my subsequent nightmares my Dad beefed up security considerably. But I didn't go to therapy. I was a Sark, and therapy was for wimps. Instead he got me another martial arts trainer and added knife work to my already extensive curriculum. After a few months of gutting an imaginary opponent the nightmares diminished. I was a very practically orientated little girl.
That older part of the file finished abruptly with the reporting of Laura Bristow's "death". But when I moved onto the period dating from around 2002 it became suddenly more interesting.
Irina Derevko had been an unheralded walk in to the CIA in 2002, but had insisted she be debriefed only by Sydney Bristow, confirmed to be her daughter. The dry facts left tantalising hints, and without the video and audio files I was left frustrated and almost physically champing at the bit. I would have loved to have seen the dynamics of an interview between mother and daughter. After that there were mentions of more debriefings, a mission that all three Bristows had gone on, various snippets, and then nothing. The file just stopped. Just the bare notation that the Irina Derevko file was henceforth suspended. What had happened? Where had she gone? Was she still imprisoned by the CIA? And what had happened to my Mother in the meantime? It was clear that she was working for the CIA at the time, but I had been born in 2004 and there was no mention of my Dad anywhere in Irina Derevko's file. And he had been, by his own admission her right hand up until my birth. How had my Mum met my Dad? Why was I here?
I felt like the bastardised offspring of some fucked up version of Romeo and Juliet. Where did I go from here? I knew I would never be able to get on with life until I had some answers and I had hit rock bottom with this avenue. And much as he loved me I knew my Dad would never talk about it. It was a taboo subject for him. So that really only left one option. I had to go to the source.
I had to go and visit my Mother.
*********
It was still dark outside and the only illumination came from the dim glow of the alarm clock on the bedside table. Sark was still wrapped around her like a comfort blanket, although she sometimes wondered who was comforting who. Whatever little she had learned about Andrew Sark in the last 10 months, it was clear by omission that his childhood certainly hadn't been all puppies and roses. Not that he would ever talk about it. Some barriers were still as high as ever.
She eased herself out of his arms, careful not to disturb him, as she crossed the room to the bathroom. He stirred faintly as she switched on the light, the illumination spilling from behind the door highlighting his face and causing him to turn on his side and bury his face under the pillows before falling back into sleep. That at least had changed. As little as a few months ago he would have woken up at any movement, but now he trusted her to watch his back. That at least was solid between them.
She closed the door behind her and dug out the package where she had hidden it earlier and sat down to read the instructions.
The requisite 3 minutes later she was sitting on the toilet seat in a state of shock. Pink. It wasn't meant to be pink. She'd been careful. Didn't this mean it couldn't be pink? She shook the wand frantically, but it stayed defiantly pink. Baby pink.
Baby. She was pregnant. She couldn't be pregnant. Not now. Not ever. She had never even thought about being pregnant since Danny. And with Sark's child?
She had felt a little sick on their last mission, but had put it down to a dodgy Chinese, like the one that had made her sick the month before. She bit her lip as it all made sense. Dodgy Chinese, being sick, being on the Pill. A bad combination all round, and Lady Luck had just rolled the dice against her.
She tentatively put her hand on her stomach. She was pregnant. And with the child of the man sleeping next door. And she didn't know what he would feel, or think, or even to be honest what she felt or thought about it. All she knew was the thought that there might be life somewhere inside her, that she might be able to produce something that wasn't connected with death and pain, gave her a strange wobbly feeling deep inside.
She sat and stared at the wand for another few minutes until the colour slowly faded from the little window. Then she methodically destroyed all traces of her little experiment and flushed the remnants down the toilet. As she slipped back into bed and Sark's arm automatically came out to snuggle her closer all she could think about was the possibility of a child, a smiling child, a laughing boy with fair hair, and burning hazel eyes, playing in the sunlight. Sark's child. Her child. What was she going to do?
*********************
Of course the minute I actually realised what I had to do all my motivation to actually do it went out of the window. It had all seemed so easy until I actually took the time to consider what it would mean. I didn't know this woman. She didn't know me. And I was just meant to appear on her doorstep and chirpily announce, "Hi - I'm your long lost daughter! Remember me?" Not a cunning plan. I shifted uncomfortably on the couch. But at this rate it might be my only option. I rubbed my eyes. 24 hours on the go and a life altering decision didn't go well together. I would sleep on it. Maybe when I was thinking properly another solution would become apparent.
The next thing I knew there were streamers of bright sunlight leaking through the blinds and Fee was bashing on my bedroom door. I pulled myself up from another bizarre dream about talking fish (what was it with me and fish these days anyway?) and groggily sat up in bed, trying to pull my hair into some semblance of order. I had horrible morning mouth, and god I needed a coffee.
"What?" I screamed, or tried to scream. It came out more of a croak.
"'Lena - get up!"
I scowled at the closed door.
"Do I disturb your sleep? Bugger off!"
The door creaked open and Fee's frantically screwed up face peered around the edge.
"'Lena, you have to get up NOW!"
I wasn't convinced.
"Why?"
Her face screwed up even more and she made a jerky head motion towards the living room.
"Your Dad's here. And he looks serious."
That got me up.
*********************
Syd spent the next week in a state of complete distraction. She could tell that Sark noticed, but unexpectedly tolerant he didn't mention it. Although every so often she did catch him watching her, forehead creased in concern. But he had obviously decided to let her handle her own concerns in her own way.
Any other time she would have appreciated that, but now she felt like she was wearing a big sign on her head that screamed "conflicted!" and all she really wanted was for him to sit her down and demand the truth. But he didn't and so she spent the rest of the week getting more and more confused and anxious.
For Sark it was a strange week. Syd had started out distracted, quickly descended into absentminded and went downwards from there. Every night she snuggled into him desperately like he was the last solid thing on earth, but during the day her expression was often so far away he wondered if she even heard what he said. It wasn't until he caught her completely mistranslating the plans for their latest mission that he realised he was going to have to find out what was bothering her, if only for their personal safety. If she was distracted on the mission she might get both of them killed.
He automatically considered several convoluted approaches, and eventually decided that in this case, the direct attack might just work best.
"Sydney." Syd looked up, startled. She had been so far away in thought she hadn't even heard him come in the room. He was leaning against the door jamb, black sweater and combat trousers almost blending into the shadows. She smiled faintly. He did so love black. Assassin chic, she called it.
"Hhmm?"
"Syd, I think we have to talk."
At his words her mind immediately went into overtime. Talk - had he found out? Did he know? He couldn't have. But then if not - what did he need to talk about? For Sark it was almost dizzying watching every emotion flood across her face in quick time. She looked scared. That concerned him. In every mission they had done together, whether as partners or rivals he had yet to see her afraid. But now at a few words from him she was terrified. Abruptly he abandoned his plan and crossed over to crouch in front of her, taking her hands in his. Her hands were like ice and he frowned in concern, rubbing them with his warm ones to heat them. When he looked up she was staring down at him like he had come to arrange her execution. Something was definitely wrong.
"Syd, I don't want to pressure you, but I'm not blind. Something's wrong. What is it?"
All she could think of as she looked down into his blue eyes was escape. Fight or flight, just what her body knew best. But she knew she couldn't run away from this, no matter how much she wanted to. But how to say it - what to do? Undecided she pulled her hands from his and got up to pace, needing to move, while he took her place on the couch, watching her with keen eyed attention. She didn't even know how to start. She couldn't ever remember being this scared. But waiting didn't make it any easier. So she turned to face him.
"Sar.Andrew - do you ever think about family?"
He frowned, puzzled. Where was she going with this?
"Yes..."
"Do you remember what it's like to be in one?"
Now he was truly confused. But she was obviously trying to say something so he decided to humour her.
"I wasn't born fully grown, Syd," he commented in his driest tones. She knew he didn't like to speak about his parents. She blushed and shook her head in frustration.
"What I mean to say is - have you ever wanted to part of one?"
Perhaps she was missing her Father and her friends. Although what that had to do with this he couldn't fathom. Women were an enigma wrapped in a mystery and this one more than most. "I can't say I've really thought about it much. Why?"
She crossed over and kneeled in front of him, unconsciously mirroring the position he had taken a few minutes before, putting her hands on his knees. Her brown eyes were wide and very earnest.
"I think you might have to think about it soon." He cocked an eyebrow in confusion. What on earth was she talking about? And then it dawned on him.
For Syd it was like watching a dam break. She had never believed she would ever see the impenetrable Sark genuinely caught off guard. A small internal part of her did cartwheels in jubilation, while the rest of her quailed in reaction. He grasped at her hands convulsively and she bit her lips not to flinch at the sudden pressure. For a minute they sat, both frozen in time, and then Sark took a deep breath and centred himself. He slipped a hand free and put it to her cheek and she immediately turned her face into it, nuzzling at his palm, her eyes closed.
"Syd - are you trying to tell me that you're pregnant?"
She nodded against his palm, her heart too full to speak.
He sat back, pulling her up onto his lap, momentarily flummoxed. She curled up against his chest like a kitten and his arms tightened around her reflexively.
"Right. Just give me a minute, sweetheart. I might have to think about this one for a while."
And curled against his chest Syd nodded her head in definite, frantic agreement. They both had to think about this one for a while.
*********************
I took the time to pull on a pair of jeans and an old sloppy Joe. I loved my Dad and I'd never once been scared of him but it was always strategically a good decision to face him fully armed, so to speak.
He was lounging back on the coach, dressed in his customary black. I used to tease him about it when I was younger. He always deflected my comments with a muttered "assassin chic" and a little half smile that I could never quite figure out. But these days it was just what he always wore, as much as part of him as his skin. My Dad - the perpetual mourner. Fee had brought him a coffee and he was regarding the beverage with the suspicion he normally reserved for large explosives. No Columbian mountain blends for Fee and me. Nope - we lived on Jolt coffee - extra strength. He raised an ironic eyebrow at me as I crossed to drop a kiss on his cheek before curling up in the armchair opposite.
"I pay for an extremely expensive education and then you go and fry your brain with this swill."
I just smirked back as I quickly downed half of my "swill" in a few gulps. The caffeine hit my system like a blast of cold water.
"At least it's legal. Unlike other drugs I could be using."
"True." He regarded me for a moment in silence.
"Elena, I know what you've been doing."
I stiffened, before I made myself relax. He couldn't know, not unless Fee had told him, and I know she never would have. She'd be too scared of his reaction. He must mean something else. I racked my brain to think of any indiscretion that would warrant this visit. But before I could finish the thought his voice broke into my musings.
"No I don't mean anything else, and yes, I do mean your search for your Mother." I just gawped at him. How could he know that?
He shook his head at me in an admonishing gesture.
"Sweetheart, you should have learned by now that I can read everything you're thinking just by watching your face."
I was still gaping at him. Was I truly that transparent?
"Don't worry. It's probably just me. I have had 20 years to study you. But it's a trait you shared - share -with your mother."
I closed my mouth with a snap. Was he actually acknowledging my mother in the present tense? And talking about her without being begged for every scrap of information? Suddenly I had the urge to check for pod people. It was definitely Invasion of the Body Snatchers.
"Twenty years ago I had tags created on the files of 3 individuals in the CIA main database. I'm sure you can work out who they were."
I just nodded silently: Sydney Bristow, Jonathon, or Jack Bristow and Irina Derevko. "Yesterday I received notification that an outside source had hacked into Irina's files" I noticed how he called her Irina. Casually, familiarly, as though the woman wasn't an assassin and murderer. And my grandmother to boot.
"I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised when my sources traced the intrusion back to Fiona's computer." His voice was absolutely neutral, and I stared fixedly at the rug, filled with a strange mixture of relief and shame. I didn't even hear him move, but the next minute there were firm fingers pulling up my chin, forcing me to look him straight in the eyes.
"'Lena."
I couldn't look him straight in the face and tried to squirm my chin out from his hold. With a slight shake of his head he firmly tugged my face up again. "'Lena, look at me." He was frowning, small lines creasing on his forehead and I realised suddenly that he looked.tired. And wounded in some way I had never noticed before.
"You are my daughter and I never, ever want you to feel you can't look me in the eyes. Got that?" He gave my chin a small shake. I nodded against his hand.
"I guessed that you wouldn't leave it with the information you have now." There was a new note I couldn't read in his voice. Amused acknowledgment touched with something else. I ducked my head in embarrassment.
"However I must admit I didn't expect you to get to it this quickly." I looked up at him bashfully, taken back by the small smile that played across his mouth for a second before disappearing.
"But you are my daughter, and with the rest of your background being as it is, I suppose I shouldn't have expected anything less." There was that note again. I frowned as I tried to identify what he wasn't saying. And then as I gazed up at him and his hand touched my cheek gently I realised what it was. Pride. He was proud of me. After all the emotion of the last 36 hours it was too much and my bottom lip started to tremble. He ran a caressing hand over my cheek and stood up, pulling an envelope out of his pocket, firmly tucking one of my hands around it. I could still feel the phantom trails of his fingers on my skin, although the warmth was quickly fading. "I can't tell you what you need to know." He tucked his hands into his pockets and looked down at me. "I can't rake up the past like that, bear cub. But I know you need to know." He leaned down and pressed a kiss to my forehead. "Just do one thing for me sweetheart. When all this is finished, promise me you'll come back home." I had to swallow the lump in my throat to answer him and my voice came out thin and thready.
"I promise, Daddy. I'll come home."
He nodded half to himself, reached out to touch my hair affectionately, and left without a further word.
I opened the envelope.
When Fee came in two minutes later she found me in a puddle of tears, curled up in the armchair. Before she could ask what was wrong I waved the contents of the envelope at her. US Dollar travellers' cheques, a platinum visa card in my name.
And two first class round tickets to San Diego, California.
*********************
They had curled up together in their bed, neither willing to start the conversation that they needed to have. Instead they focused on the moment, the rise and fall of breath, and the warmth and steadiness of the other. Eventually Sydney couldn't bear the silence any longer. "Andrew? What are we going to do?"
She rolled onto her back to look at him as he propped himself up on his elbow to regard her. The fire light turned his chest to a mass of angles and shades and her hand twitched to reach out and caress him. She knew every inch of that skin now, all those lines of bone and muscles, had mapped every plane with hands and tongue, but sometimes she still craved the taste of his skin with a passion that was almost reckless. He was her drug of choice and she was addicted.
He took his time in answering, staring at her face as if he was memorising her from the inside out.
"What do you want to do?"
She frowned at him. If she knew what she wanted to do she wouldn't be asking him, would she?
"I don't know."
He looked momentarily frustrated and shook his head in dismissal.
"Sydney, I don't mean what you should do. If you were in an ideal situation and you got pregnant, what would you do?"
She hesitated, torn between conflicting impulses, good sense warring against instinct.
"I." He saw her hesitation and pressed her.
"Would you keep this child? Would you get an abortion?" He leaned in closer, pushing his weight against her, pressurising her. She frowned and tried to wriggle away, but he trapped her wrists with his hands and her body with his weight and held her immobile. "Just answer me right now - would you keep this child?"
She was upset now, not liking the restraint or the pressure. All she wanted to do was run, as had always been her wont. But he wouldn't let her escape.
"I don't know!"
"Do you want this child? Answer me!"
Pushed beyond her comfortable limits she snarled up at him. "Yes - I want this child. But I can't keep it, because it's yours!"
They both froze for a second, acknowledging the uncomfortable truth of her words, regrouping. Syd ceased her resistance and looked at him anxiously. Then Sark pulled back a little, releasing her wrists, curling an arm around her shoulders, pulling her in closer. His face was shuttered and thoughtful. They were silent for a few minutes. "I've been thinking over our situation. It's not ideal, I grant you."
Curled against him, Syd snorted in exasperation at that understatement. "But I believe that if we can work together we can overcome most of the obstacles. We have another 12 months before we are due back at SD-6. More than enough time for the baby to be born and for.arrangements. to be made."
She wasn't too sure if she had just heard what she had thought she'd heard.
Scrambling around in the bed she propped herself up, looking down at Sark, reversing their positions.
"Are you telling me you want this child?" she demanded incredulously. Of all the responses she had expected, this was certainly the least predictable.
He looked up at her, lifting a hand to touch her cheek, his eyes ice blue and unreadable and hesitated before going on.
"Yes. I want this child. I'll respect your decision if you choose otherwise. But for myself - I could think of no one else I'd ever want a child more with."
She stared down at him in blank shock. From Sark, this was more than a proposal of marriage.
"But we can't." She cast around wildly for words to even describe the magnitude of the foolishness of the path they were considering. "The security risks, the protocols."
"Fuck the protocols." His voice was a low growl that sent shivers down her spine. "Why should we never have children like any one else? Why do we have to have no family?" Unspoken it hung on the air - why are we always alone?
"But the hostage risk, my family, SD-6." She was almost hyperventilating and he sat up and took her shoulders firmly, his eyes very intent.
"You once said to me that you felt like we were in a bubble for the duration of this mission, right?" At her uncertain nod he continued.
"We are still in this bubble. We will remain in it for the duration of your pregnancy, even after the birth. Just you and me, Syd. Just us, no one else. No one else matters."
He was giving her a look of almost laser beam intensity. "And once our time is up, I promise, by then I will have things sorted out. I promise you this; if you have this child I will give my life to see that it remains unhurt. I swear this. Do you understand me?"
Caught by the fire in his eyes she could only nod mutely. There was a world of emotion in his face as though a great dam had broken. She felt powerless in the face of the onslaught. And also she wanted this child. Her child, Sark's child, their son or daughter. Her free hand slid down to rest gently on the curve of her stomach and his followed hers, fingers entwining against the soft skin of her abdomen. She swallowed convulsively, trying to speak past the lump in her throat.
"You promise on your life that you'll protect this baby? That whatever happens we can work something out?"
She looked him straight in the eyes, looking for any sign of hesitation and reluctance. But there was none, just blue fire blazing back at her, more passion in him than she had ever seen before.
"I promise. I swear it."
Syd took a deep breath. "Then I'll have this baby. I'll give us a child, Sark" And she was almost bowled over by the force of desire and pride in his eyes as he seized her mouth roughly and pushed her back onto the bed, intent of demonstrating to her by touch all the things he was too crippled to say aloud.
*********************
I had my father's blessing. And frankly, that scared me more than anything else. For the next two days I was completely frozen by indecision, unable to move forwards or backwards. It was Fee who finally took matters into her own hands and catapulted events into motion.
I was sitting watching the TV mindlessly when she abruptly slapped the two tickets down in front of me. When I picked them up I noticed they had been validated for travel in three days. I opened my mouth to protest, but she stopped me with a waggled finger.
"I have been watching you mope around here for the last two days, and since you seem constitutionally incapable of making a decision I've taken it out of your hands. We are flying out of here in three days, you are going to go and see your mother, while I'll go to Seaworld. And then finally perhaps both of us can get on with life as we know it!"
In the face of such righteous indignation all I could do was nod assent.
*********************
All their significant moments seemed to happen at night. Perhaps it was simply the fundamental nature of their relationship. Sark shrugged off the thought and firmly curled his arm around Sydney, hugging her closer to his body. Her hair splayed out in a fan across his chest, the trailing tendrils of it tingling on his nerve endings. Absently he wrapped a piece around his free hand, disturbing and then smoothing the silken texture back into submission. She wasn't completely asleep, he could tell that much, but her body was totally pliant in his arms, trusting.
He was still somewhat awed by that trust, even when he had spent over a year earning it. He rang a light, caressing finger along her shoulder, smiling when she murmured sleepily in response. She was not a woman to do any thing by halves, was Sydney Bristow. Having decided to trust, she trusted absolutely, having decided to love she did so without holding back.
He fervently hoped he would never have to break that faith.
It had some unexpected joys, being with her. She was loyal beyond reason or thought. In defence of those she considered hers there was no one fiercer, a veritable falcon in the dive. And she was a great cook. Although on the rare occasions they had a chance to cook for themselves they tended to fight for the duty, as Sark considered himself somewhat gifted in that area as well. And behind that well brought up exterior she had a wicked sense of humour.
And when it came to sex the intensity of her passion was almost frightening. For many other men it would have been intimidating, but not for Sark. He had long ago released his inhibition in those areas. It had been said that what was necessary for the authentic experience of life was the confrontation of death, and while he didn't quite subscribe to that philosophy he understood the meaning behind it. Everyday he was alive could be his last, and a consequence he worked to truly live and experience in a way few could match. And so every night she was with him he loved her as though there was no tomorrow. Because for them there might not be.
The firelight was gilding her skin, accents of fox-gold on alabaster, casting accents on her hair, turning it into a nimbus of auburn tinged mink. He leaned down to drop a delicate kiss on her collarbone and she stirred sleepily, turning in his arms, blinking up at him from half opened lashes. The firelight caught the glitter of her eyes under the lids as a little half frown reflectively furrowed her forehead.
"Andrew?" Her murmur was still half conscious, not really coherent as yet. "What's wrong?"
He leaned down and kissed her forehead gently, shifting as she curled up on his chest, taking her hand and entwining their fingers.
"Nothing. Just thinking."
She frowned a little more. "Too late for thinking. You think too much anyway. Go to sleep."
"Soon, leannan."
She smiled sleepily at the endearment, curling even closer, her head over his heart. "Tell me a story."
He closed his eyes for a moment. It was at times like this, in the small hours, when his defences were weakest. And sometimes the smallest thing she did could pierce him to the core. Leannan. Sweetheart. One of the few things he could remember from his mother, before she had been ripped out of his life. And his own response as he went to sleep each night. Tell me a story, Mummy.
He put out a not altogether steady hand to stroke her hair as she sighed in contentment.
"Not a story. My stories aren't bedroom ones, leannan."
She muttered faintly in protest, still more than half asleep. He smiled faintly in response and continued stroking her hair, soothing her back into sleep. But as she fell into unconsciousness she was sure she heard his voice at the edge of awareness, rhythm, pattern and melody blending in to create a hypnotic lull.
For Sark, that night would be one that he held precious for many years to come, this woman who had crept inside his defences in his arms, her body carrying his child, and the firelight blessing them both. And over it all the words of his favourite poet providing the release for all the things he felt too crippled to say.
FASTEN your hair with a golden pin,
And bind up every wandering tress;
I bade my heart build these poor rhymes:
It worked at them, day out, day in,
Building a sorrowful loveliness
Out of the battles of old times.
You need but lift a pearl-pale hand,
And bind up your long hair and sigh;
And all men's hearts must burn and beat;
And candle-like foam on the dim sand,
And stars climbing the dew-dropping sky,
Live but to light your passing feet.
********************
It was the longest flight of my life. Even with the reassuring presence of Fee beside me, busy guzzling every comfort that first class had to offer. I couldn't sleep, dozens of possible scenarios running through my brain. Would she reject me, try to slam the door in my face, profess ignorance of my existence? Or worse would she simply not see me at all, too caught up in some happy home life she had created, a domestic goddess for the twenty first century. What would she think of me? After all I wasn't exactly dream long lost daughter material. My temper was too sharp and my sense of humour sharper, my body still felt like it was rebelling against my control and hey, I brought all the baggage of being the daughter of a man famous for some very dubious incidents plus her lost lover to boot. Not exactly an easy package to swallow.
*******************
What had been fairly simple now escalated in complexity. Every mission had to be triple planned, every contact double checked, the safety of more than themselves risked with every outing. As her body ripened Syd found her attitudes changing to match. Every time she lay against him in their bed, mapped the peace in his face as he slept with a hand curled against her abdomen her resolve sharpened. This was her time - her mate, her child and by God she would bring them all through to the other side as intact as possible. And every day Sark looked at her and saw the shadow of Irina Derevko run closer to the surface of Sydney Bristow as she focused her whole being on their survival, morality and leniency be damned.
But there were lighter moments too - when Sark managed to get Cherry Garcia ice cream shipped in at exorbitant cost to satisfy her cravings, leading to ridiculous tussles over the spoon and love play that left Ben & Jerry's splashed over the walls. Or when she would create disgusting sandwich combinations that had him gagging and pretending to retch at the smell of her breath. But he always kissed her anyway.
For Sark the whole thing still seemed strangely unreal, as though he would wake and realise one morning that she wasn't there, that it had all been some dream turned nightmare by the emptiness of the bed beside him. So paradoxically as she grew fiercer he grew gentler with her, inwardly terrified that he would wake up one morning and she, and their child, would be gone. And as he grew gentler the ferocity of her caring for him grew, until every mission when she couldn't be beside him was a source of endless tension and concern.
For as her body changed Syd had had to accept a more sedentary role in their missions, acting as his all seeing eyes, calling out the shots from the comparative safety of her snipers position. But he always felt her at his back, connected by more then a spiral of wire, invisible wings of fierce protectiveness blanketing him in a way he hadn't felt since his mother died. And whenever he stumbled her voice was there to show him the right path to take, the right person to kill, the safe way to come back to her and their child in one piece.
And the only thing that shadowed their weird idyllic interlude was the awareness that time was rapidly running out for the both of them.
******************
I fretted all the way through the taxi ride, the plane journey and the limo ride to the five star hotel (my Dad never did anything by halves). By the end of fifteen hours in my company Fee was ready to rip my head off and stuff somewhere unmentionable. But I couldn't help it. How was I supposed to do this thing? Should I just walk up to her door and knock? Or leave a message? Send a letter? Call? For once in my over achieving life I had no clue what to do.
******************
He smiled as he watched her dressing in front of the mirror. The necessity for cold weather clothing during the winter in Khurdistan had been a blessing. Nothing disguised a pregnant woman like a large bulky fur coat and Syd had become increasingly adept at using them to hide her condition. But just now she was still dressed in her normal overlarge sweats and Sloppy Joes and the light silhouetted the rich curves of her breasts and belly that at 7 months were becoming increasingly prominent.
They hadn't been able to risk the normal barrage of tests that a Western expectant mother would have had, forced by their peculiar circumstances to rely on a few medical textbooks and Sydney's athletes awareness of her changing body. But he hadn't been able to resist buying a copy of "What to expect when you are expecting" through the Net and it had turned into a great source of light relief, one that cracked Syd up every time she caught him reading it. Assassin chic indeed. At this rate his image was voluntarily going to be in tatters.
He smiled wryly at the thought, gathering Sydney's coat from the bed behind her and holding it up so she could slip her arms more easily into the heavy fur. She anxiously checked the draw on the two guns she had concealed in the lining, fretting until he put his arms around her, their joined hands resting on her swollen abdomen, her anxious face reflected in the mirror.
"It'll be fine."
"It's our last briefing, Sark. We've only got six months left."
He pulled her gently against him as he acknowledged the truth of her statement. "It's enough. It'll all be okay leannan. Don't fret."
She spun in his grasp to face him, leaning in so he felt the press of her belly between them.
"It's not fine Andrew! It's my Father this time! Not just Sloane. And I look like this!"
She gesticulated wildly at her stomach, eyes more than a little unnerved, hair flying everywhere.
He smoothed the errant strands behind her ear.
"Nothing is going to happen, Syd. Don't worry. Just stay in your coat and keep as far away from your father as possible." He pressed his lips to her forehead. "Thank god you're not exactly a touchy-feely family."
She managed to drag up a lopsided smile for that. "Yeah. At least he won't be expected a hug."
Sark shuddered inwardly at how disastrous that would be. Holstering the last of his armoury he mentally assumed the persona of Ruslan Baranov once more, by now so familiar it was like slipping on a comfortable pair of slippers. Then, free hand near his gun and the other in the hollow of his "wife's" back they set out for the rendezvous point.
This would work. It had to.
******************
Fee had as she had promised "buggered off to Seaworld", leaving me sitting in the hotel room in a state of complete indecisiveness. I knew that eventually my own inactivity would piss me off enough that I would do something. Which was how after 2 hours of examining the décor in my room I found myself hailing a cab and directing it to take me to Banner Avenue, where at number 32 there lived a Bristow, Sydney.
******************
Sark looked up from the plans he was translating. From the silence he had suspected as much - she had fallen asleep again. These days she tired easily, very little exertion instantly sending her off to slumber. It meant that the lion's share of their work fell on him but he couldn't bring himself to begrudge her that when he saw the exhaustion that carrying their child was piling on her slender frame.
He padded into the bedroom and grabbed a blanket, tucking it around her where she dozed on the living room couch. Her eyes threatened to open for a minute before she gave up the battle and fell deeper into slumber. The baby was really taking it out of her.
Sark went back to his translation, occasionally looking up to rest his eyes on the sleeping figure of his woman. With the final rendezvous with Sloane and Jack Bristow successfully scaled the only obstacle left was ensuring that he, Syd and the child would come through this entire experience in one piece. And he had some plans for that. And by God no one would stand in his way. Not Irina, not Sloane, and not Jack Bristow and the entire bloody CIA. And if they tried - well - there was a reason for his reputation.
If anyone had been watching they might have shuddered at the way the normally expressive eyes went ice like and opaque as Sark thought about what he would do to anyone who would dare to try and harm his child or its mother.
******************
Well, here I was. When the taxi had pulled up to the corner I had sat frozen for long enough that the driver had had to snap at me to get me to move. I had thrust a bundle of bills at him and he had driven off, throwing me a disgusted look. No doubt he thought I was a complete nutter.
It seemed a fairly typical Californian suburb, all carefully watered green vegetation and white painted bungalows.
I examined the house in front of me dubiously. Yup - definitely the right address. But it certainly didn't look like the house of an ex-superspy. I mentally shrugged. I couldn't talk. If you believed half the rumours about my Dad he should be living in Dracula's Castle in deepest Transylvania, not on a rather nice estate in deepest Surrey.
I loitered around on the pavement for a few minutes, still unsure if this was a sensible thing to do. Suddenly I really wished my Dad was with me. I never suffered from this kind of confusion when he was around. Admittedly if he was here now none of this would be necessary in the first place. God, I needed to get my arse in gear and stop wool-gathering. I shook my head in frustration and slipped through the garden gate before I could change my mind.
*****************