~ * ~
When I first fell in love with Vaughn I used to plan out our life together. I knew every detail of our wedding, from my gown to the look in his eyes when he lifted the veil from my face. We were going to have two children, William and Laura, in memory of the parents we'd lost, because to me Laura Bristow would always be my mother. I thought I'd love Vaughn forever, but that dream came crashing down when I woke up in Hong Kong and lost two years of my life. And when he looked at me with a gold ring flashing on his finger, I knew it was all over. He might love me forever, but it would never be the same, because Michael Vaughn had taken a vow to honor and cherish another woman and he would never give that up. He was too noble, too honorable, too good-hearted to leave her, even for the woman he'd loved first. No, I knew when I looked into his eyes that first night that we were through. That night, I thought I lost all my dreams of husbands and children and houses full of laughter. I thought I would never be happy again, never live the life I've wanted since I was six years old.
But now, standing in the doorway of this room, gazing at the slumbering baby in his crib, I know that every dream I ever had has come true. Maybe it didn't happen the way I expected, but it happened all the same.
The room is exactly as I imagined when I was a little girl, especially the rocking chair by the big bay window. I always wanted one of those to rock my baby to sleep at night. Looking around, at the color of the paint and the type of furniture, I wonder if I decorated this room. It certainly is in my taste, but whom was I decorating it for? Myself? My son? My family? I feel dizzy at the thought of being family with Sark. "Stop, Syd," I say to myself. "Concentrate on the present. Worry about Sark later." I massage my temples for a moment and feel a little calmer.
I tiptoe to the crib along the far wall, barely making a sound on the soft carpet. I peer over the side rail and my breath catches in my throat at the sight of my son sleeping peacefully. He has one thumb tucked in his mouth and his other arm is wrapped around a stuffed lamb. There's something familiar about the animal and I realize it's one of mine, a gift from my mother on my fourth Easter. It's been missing from my apartment, I assumed it was lost after my fight with not-Francie, but I guess I brought it with me here. It's a little torn, a little faded, but very well loved. I'm happy it brings so much peace to my son.
I should have been content to simply stare at him, let him get his rest so we can have our big reunion tomorrow, but I can't resist running a finger down his petal-soft cheek.
Big mistake.
I know instantly he's the son of spies; even the slightest touch sets him off. He jerks in his sleep and opens brilliant blue eyes. I can see their bright glow even in the dim moonlight. His little mouth opens and out comes the loudest, shrillest cry I've ever heard. I look around anxiously, expecting Sergei to bound in and swoop to the baby's rescue, but the door remains closed.
I take a nervous step back as my heart starts pounding in my chest. Tears are rolling down his cheeks and he looks miserable, but the last thing I can do is pick him up. I've never held a baby in my life. What if I drop him or squeeze him too tight? What if I do something terribly wrong and he hates me before I get the chance to know him? His cries get louder and I stare down at him, gripping the crib slats with white knuckled hands. "Oh, baby," I whisper. "What do I do?" Tears prick at the back of my eyes and I'm on the verge of sobbing from frustration. I don't know how much more of this I can take. All I want to do is comfort my baby and I'm terrified to touch him.
It's obvious this little tantrum isn't going to stop unless I do something, so I squeeze my eyes shut and reach into the crib. There's a roaring in my ears as my arms wrap around soft baby skin and before I know what I'm doing I scoop him into my arms. I clasp him to my chest just like that blonde girl did before and open my eyes. To my surprise everything is fine. My son is lying peacefully in my arms, his thumb safely tucked in his mouth, and he's watching me with wide blue eyes. The roar in my ears dies down, my heartbeat returns to normal, and a wave of peace seems to wash over me.
I'm not afraid anymore. It doesn't seem to matter that I can't remember being a mother or even what I named my son, because I instinctively know what to do. I remember talking about it during one of my visits to that bitch of a CIA shrink. It was right after my mother shot me and I was having a little trouble dealing. She asked me a question, a simple question about growing up without a mother, but it struck a chord and everything came pouring out: how all I wanted was a normal life with a husband and babies, my fears about being unable to love my children because I didn't know a mother's love myself, my worries of screwing up my kids the way my dad did to me. I sobbed and cried and carried on and at the end she looked me right in the eye and told me I'd be okay. "You're a good person, Sydney," she's said. "The past doesn't always shape the present. You'll be wonderful mom."
Standing here, holding my son in my arms, for the first time I believe her because nothing in my life has ever felt so right. I hug my little angel closer and he opens his big, blue eyes and stares up at me.
"Hey there," I whisper. "Remember me?"
A wide smile breaks out across his face. "Momma, home" he giggles and purses his lips. I frown, wondering what he wants and cursing myself for not being able to remember. A good mother would know instantly what's wrong with her child, but I don't even know his name. I feel like the crappiest mom on earth. He stares at me and I lean down to kiss him, but something flashes into my mind first. It's not a memory exactly, more like a sudden impulse, and instead of kissing him I rub his nose with mine, Eskimo style. I guess I got it right because he laughs loudly and tugs on my hair. I don't feel like such a bad person anymore. "Momma," he says again and my heart clenches. God, it feels good to hear him say those words. I might not be able to remember him, might be terrified of loving him, but I know deep down inside that I'm his mother and I do love him with all my heart. I just need to get over my own fears and guilt to show him.
The clock on the way indicates it's nearly midnight, way past his bedtime, but this little reunion is keeping him awake. I want nothing more than to hold him tight for the rest of my life, but that's not what good mom would do. A good mom would put his needs before her own, because that's what parents do for their children, and he needs to go back to bed. Still, I'm not ready to let him go just yet.
Carefully cradling him in my arms I walk towards the rocking chair by the window. Sitting in a wide beam of moonlight, its pale wood gleams and the intricate details of the cushions are clear. I can't help but gasp. It's the chair I've dreamed of since I was a little girl, complete with the needlepointed, fairytale seat I sketched in eighth grade art class. That pattern had been sacred to me, represented all the dreams I'd missed out on during my childhood. I promised myself to wait until I had a real family to love me before getting the chair, but here it is, in my mother's house of secrets. I look down at my son, still watching me with his father's blue eyes, "Were we a family, baby? Did you have a Mommy and Daddy to love you?" He's too young to answer the question, but I don't want to know anyway. Discovering my baby is enough drama; I don't think I can handle thinking about Sark as my family too.
I grab a blanket from the back of the chair and settle in, wrapping the blanket around my baby. He's babbling in baby talk, rubbing his eyes furiously every other minute to stay awake. I smile at his antics and press a kiss to his forehead. "You need to go to sleep, baby," I whisper. "How about I sing you a song?" He giggles in response.
If I thought waking him up was a mistake this is even worse. I know a lot of songs, a lot of good songs, but none appropriate to sing to a sleeping baby. I sit for a moment and hum absently to myself, running a hand through my baby's silky hair. I'm about to give up and pray he'll fall asleep on his own, when something pops into my head. I've been watching a lot of daytime TV lately and maybe the couple episodes of Sesame Street I sat through are paying off.
Hush little baby don't say a word
Momma's gonna buy you a mockingbird
And if that mocking bird don't sing
Momma's gonna buy you a diamond ring
"That was his favorite song. You used to sing to him every night before bed."
My head jerks up and the last note comes out on a squeak. Sark leans casually in the doorway, one hip pressed firmly against the doorjamb. He's wearing dark pants and dark shirt, but his sleeves are rolled up and the first few buttons of his shirt are undone and his hair looks messy, like he's been running his hands through it. He catches the stricken look on my face and smirks. "Someone got caught with her hand in the cookie jar. You shouldn't be here, Sydney."
I hug my son closer to my chest. "I have every right to be with my son."
"He needs his rest. He's not even two, Sydney. He shouldn't be up this late."
"I know," I say and cringe at the hint of guilt in my voice. I didn't do anything wrong, but Sark makes me feel about two feet tall. "You know, he's been missing his mother for months now. A little reunion's not going to hurt him." My voice is stronger now, the guilt gone, and I smirk broadly myself. "I'm his mother, Sark. You can't tell me what to do."
A frown creases his brow and he ambles over to us and leans down. "Give him to me."
"No!" my voice is higher and louder than I intended, but I hold my ground. "I'm singing him to sleep."
Sark sighs loudly. "As you pointed out, Sydney, you've been gone for months. We have a new routine." Again, the guilt factor sets in and I begin to feel Mommy Dearest; when he reaches for the baby this time I don't put up a fight.
There are many things in my life I thought I'd never see: world peace, Sloane's head on a plate, Kendall getting a clue, but watching Mr. Sark with a baby ranks up there. The man is a trained assassin, cold, heartless, and cruel. He enjoys killing, finds pleasure in other's pain, yet he holds my baby like a piece of porcelain. A smile, a real smile not one of his trademark smirks curves his lips, as he tucks the baby's head into the contours of his chest.
It's quite possibly the sexiest thing I've ever seen. It doesn't matter who the man is, there's just something so sexy about a man and baby it makes me want to drool. . .and reminds me how long it's been since I've gotten any. That makes me jump up real fast. What is wrong with me? Am I so desperate for play that I'm beginning to think Sark, my enemy is attractive? Or are my knees starting to flutter from the way his forearms bulge as he puts the baby in his crib, or the way his pants hang off lean hips, or that fingers I'm so used to handling the barrel of a gun are brushing curls off my baby's brow? I take a shaky breath and run a hand across my eyes. It is time to calm down and get it together. I don't care that we share a child. Sark is still Sark and I'm not backing down.
I join him beside the crib and watch as he draws the blanket up the baby's chin and tucks the stuffed lamb under one arm. "He can't sleep without his blanket," Sark says. "He's had it since the day he was born."
I can't bring myself to speak so I nod instead. Again, that feeling of surrealness overwhelms me. A year ago, if anyone told me I'd be standing beside a crib, bonding over my child with Mr. Sark, I would have laughed in his face. But now, given the course of the last few months nothing seems so strange anymore. We stand in companionable silence, watching our baby sleep. It should feel uncomfortable, but it doesn't, and I'm a little weirded-out by how natural it feels. It makes me wonder even more what happened during the last two years, about this house and this room the relationship we shared.
I gaze down at my son, wondering how two people so wrong for one another could create such a perfect life. "Sark?" I ask, breaking the long silence.
"What?" There's no trace of warmth in his voice, but there's no icy coldness either. I guess that means we're getting somewhere.
"What's his name?" I ask softly
Sark turns from the crib to face me. "Why do you ask?" The coldness is back in his voice and his mouth is set in a thin line again; so much for making progress. Every time he breaks down his wall just a little bit I mention the baby and he clams up again.
"Because I'm his mother." I force my voice to remain as calm as possible. The last thing I want to do is piss him off enough to leave. "Please, tell me. You know I can't remember."
He turns back to the crib. "You named him Adam."
My Vaughn fantasies had always included babies named Tyler or Madison, thoroughly modern, unisex names. But this wasn't Vaughn and this wasn't our baby. Different strokes for different folks, I guess. "Do you know why I picked that name?" I asked softly.
He laughs, but there's nothing humorous. It's harsh and grating and laced with bitterness. I close my eyes for a moment and wonder what I did to make him so angry. We're enemies, we've tried to kill one another numerous times, yet we can't talk about something as simple as baby names? Whatever I did must have been big, painful, to make him this closed off. I just wish I could remember what it was. "It means "mankind." You thought it was fitting, considering your role in the Rambaldi Prophecy."
"Adam," I whisper. "That's a beautiful name."
Finally, a hint of a smirk curves his lips. "His middle name is Michael." I jerk my head up sharply and his smirk grows broader. "After my father. Do you really think I'd name my son after a coward like Michael Vaughn?"
I want to defend Vaughn, I want to tell Sark he's the bravest, kindest, noblest man I know—but I can't, not after his betrayal. I want to forgive him for breaking my heart, but every time I think about him a layer of ice clenches around my heart and I'm reminded of his wedding band glinting in the Hong Kong moonlight. I decide to steer the conversation away from Vaughn. "How old is he?" I ask. "I know he was walking when I. . . when I left. He was running too." Sark turns to me, and unreadable expression in his blue eyes.
"How much do you remember?"
"You didn't answer my question."
"Answer mine first."
I sigh loudly and run a frustrated hand through my hair. "Not much, just little flashes of memory here and there."
"Such as. . ."
My cheeks flame as I remember the beach dream and I'm thankful for the darkness of the room. "You and I on the porch when I was pregnant, playing with my mother and Adam. That's about it. I'm hoping I remember more over the next few days."
"We'll see about that," he mutters under his breath.
I'm a little testy now. I told him what he wanted to know and he still hasn't said anything to me. "I answered your question, now you need to answer mine. How old is Adam?"
He sighs, like he's bored of this conversation. Typical Sark; he's not interested unless it directly benefits him. "Eighteen months."
Tears prick the back of my eyes again. "I've missed so much time," I say and again, the guilt factor sets in.
"Adam has been fine without you. He has other people to care for him."
Now I'm beyond annoyed; I'm just angry. How dare he treat me like I'm inconsequential? I'm Adam's mother! "Like that blonde bimbo hanging all over you?" I hiss angrily. "You think she's an appropriate mother figure for your child!"
He rolls his eyes. "Svetlana is Adam's nanny. She's done a wonderful job of caring for him in your absence." He puts emphasis on the word "absence" and I resist the urge to kick him. It's not fair that he punishes me for something I can't remember. But then I remember this is Mr. Sark and he doesn't understand the concept of playing fair. I'll have to play his game to keep up.
"You're sleeping with her!" I point out. "She's servicing you more than Adam!"
"Sydney, are you jealous?" he smirks.
Now I have to lay a hand on my thigh to keep from kicking him. "Jealous?" I scoff. "Are you insane? I'm worried about my son because the woman taking care of him is more interested in you than his welfare. As of tomorrow she's fired."
"That's my decision."
"Well I want her gone. She looks incompetent and I'm tired of her making a fool of herself because she's in love with you."
He shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly. "Aren't they all?"
I have an angry retort on the tip of my tongue, ready to be fired, but something about the way he said that makes me stop. The words seem to casual, even for Sark. He sounds, like he's overcompensating. . . like he's hiding something. I lay a hand on his arm and he stiffens under my touch. "Was I in love with you too?"
For the briefest of moments something like pain flashes in his eyes only to be replaced by burning anger. He jerks out of my touch and crosses his arms over his chest. "Are you insane?" he mimics my earlier question. He reaches out and cups my chin in one hand, sending a spark of heat across my skin. I take in a shaky breath and try to ignore the heat burning it's way up my neck. He bends his head, lowers his mouth so it hovers barely an inch over mine, and I close my eyes as his lips brush mine once, twice, three times. I melt against his mouth and twine one hand in his hair. I hear him laugh and pull away slightly. I open my eyes to find him watching me with amused blue eyes, mocking me and how easily I give in. This is a game to him, a way to best Sydney Bristow, and I fell for it hook, line, sinker. I start to pull away, but he wraps an arm my back, pressing me against his chest. I stare up at him with wide eyes. "We hate one another, Sydney," he whispers against my mouth." "What makes you think we'd ever be in love?"
He pulls away before I can answer and walks out the door, cold laughter echoing in his wake. I press a shaky hand to my mouth and wonder what the hell just happened. I kissed Sark, or rather he kissed me, and I enjoyed it. In fact, I more than enjoyed it. If I wasn't in so much shock I'd run down that hall, push him against a wall, and tear his clothes off. But I'm so spooked I can barely stand. I collapse against the wall and sink to the floor, drawing my knees to my chest. He said he hates me; he said I hate him; he said we could never be in love. I look at the crib standing before me, think of the baby sleeping peacefully within its walls, and know there's more to it. Somewhere along the way I fell in love with Sark. I just can't remember it.
~ * ~
Please, please, please respond!
When I first fell in love with Vaughn I used to plan out our life together. I knew every detail of our wedding, from my gown to the look in his eyes when he lifted the veil from my face. We were going to have two children, William and Laura, in memory of the parents we'd lost, because to me Laura Bristow would always be my mother. I thought I'd love Vaughn forever, but that dream came crashing down when I woke up in Hong Kong and lost two years of my life. And when he looked at me with a gold ring flashing on his finger, I knew it was all over. He might love me forever, but it would never be the same, because Michael Vaughn had taken a vow to honor and cherish another woman and he would never give that up. He was too noble, too honorable, too good-hearted to leave her, even for the woman he'd loved first. No, I knew when I looked into his eyes that first night that we were through. That night, I thought I lost all my dreams of husbands and children and houses full of laughter. I thought I would never be happy again, never live the life I've wanted since I was six years old.
But now, standing in the doorway of this room, gazing at the slumbering baby in his crib, I know that every dream I ever had has come true. Maybe it didn't happen the way I expected, but it happened all the same.
The room is exactly as I imagined when I was a little girl, especially the rocking chair by the big bay window. I always wanted one of those to rock my baby to sleep at night. Looking around, at the color of the paint and the type of furniture, I wonder if I decorated this room. It certainly is in my taste, but whom was I decorating it for? Myself? My son? My family? I feel dizzy at the thought of being family with Sark. "Stop, Syd," I say to myself. "Concentrate on the present. Worry about Sark later." I massage my temples for a moment and feel a little calmer.
I tiptoe to the crib along the far wall, barely making a sound on the soft carpet. I peer over the side rail and my breath catches in my throat at the sight of my son sleeping peacefully. He has one thumb tucked in his mouth and his other arm is wrapped around a stuffed lamb. There's something familiar about the animal and I realize it's one of mine, a gift from my mother on my fourth Easter. It's been missing from my apartment, I assumed it was lost after my fight with not-Francie, but I guess I brought it with me here. It's a little torn, a little faded, but very well loved. I'm happy it brings so much peace to my son.
I should have been content to simply stare at him, let him get his rest so we can have our big reunion tomorrow, but I can't resist running a finger down his petal-soft cheek.
Big mistake.
I know instantly he's the son of spies; even the slightest touch sets him off. He jerks in his sleep and opens brilliant blue eyes. I can see their bright glow even in the dim moonlight. His little mouth opens and out comes the loudest, shrillest cry I've ever heard. I look around anxiously, expecting Sergei to bound in and swoop to the baby's rescue, but the door remains closed.
I take a nervous step back as my heart starts pounding in my chest. Tears are rolling down his cheeks and he looks miserable, but the last thing I can do is pick him up. I've never held a baby in my life. What if I drop him or squeeze him too tight? What if I do something terribly wrong and he hates me before I get the chance to know him? His cries get louder and I stare down at him, gripping the crib slats with white knuckled hands. "Oh, baby," I whisper. "What do I do?" Tears prick at the back of my eyes and I'm on the verge of sobbing from frustration. I don't know how much more of this I can take. All I want to do is comfort my baby and I'm terrified to touch him.
It's obvious this little tantrum isn't going to stop unless I do something, so I squeeze my eyes shut and reach into the crib. There's a roaring in my ears as my arms wrap around soft baby skin and before I know what I'm doing I scoop him into my arms. I clasp him to my chest just like that blonde girl did before and open my eyes. To my surprise everything is fine. My son is lying peacefully in my arms, his thumb safely tucked in his mouth, and he's watching me with wide blue eyes. The roar in my ears dies down, my heartbeat returns to normal, and a wave of peace seems to wash over me.
I'm not afraid anymore. It doesn't seem to matter that I can't remember being a mother or even what I named my son, because I instinctively know what to do. I remember talking about it during one of my visits to that bitch of a CIA shrink. It was right after my mother shot me and I was having a little trouble dealing. She asked me a question, a simple question about growing up without a mother, but it struck a chord and everything came pouring out: how all I wanted was a normal life with a husband and babies, my fears about being unable to love my children because I didn't know a mother's love myself, my worries of screwing up my kids the way my dad did to me. I sobbed and cried and carried on and at the end she looked me right in the eye and told me I'd be okay. "You're a good person, Sydney," she's said. "The past doesn't always shape the present. You'll be wonderful mom."
Standing here, holding my son in my arms, for the first time I believe her because nothing in my life has ever felt so right. I hug my little angel closer and he opens his big, blue eyes and stares up at me.
"Hey there," I whisper. "Remember me?"
A wide smile breaks out across his face. "Momma, home" he giggles and purses his lips. I frown, wondering what he wants and cursing myself for not being able to remember. A good mother would know instantly what's wrong with her child, but I don't even know his name. I feel like the crappiest mom on earth. He stares at me and I lean down to kiss him, but something flashes into my mind first. It's not a memory exactly, more like a sudden impulse, and instead of kissing him I rub his nose with mine, Eskimo style. I guess I got it right because he laughs loudly and tugs on my hair. I don't feel like such a bad person anymore. "Momma," he says again and my heart clenches. God, it feels good to hear him say those words. I might not be able to remember him, might be terrified of loving him, but I know deep down inside that I'm his mother and I do love him with all my heart. I just need to get over my own fears and guilt to show him.
The clock on the way indicates it's nearly midnight, way past his bedtime, but this little reunion is keeping him awake. I want nothing more than to hold him tight for the rest of my life, but that's not what good mom would do. A good mom would put his needs before her own, because that's what parents do for their children, and he needs to go back to bed. Still, I'm not ready to let him go just yet.
Carefully cradling him in my arms I walk towards the rocking chair by the window. Sitting in a wide beam of moonlight, its pale wood gleams and the intricate details of the cushions are clear. I can't help but gasp. It's the chair I've dreamed of since I was a little girl, complete with the needlepointed, fairytale seat I sketched in eighth grade art class. That pattern had been sacred to me, represented all the dreams I'd missed out on during my childhood. I promised myself to wait until I had a real family to love me before getting the chair, but here it is, in my mother's house of secrets. I look down at my son, still watching me with his father's blue eyes, "Were we a family, baby? Did you have a Mommy and Daddy to love you?" He's too young to answer the question, but I don't want to know anyway. Discovering my baby is enough drama; I don't think I can handle thinking about Sark as my family too.
I grab a blanket from the back of the chair and settle in, wrapping the blanket around my baby. He's babbling in baby talk, rubbing his eyes furiously every other minute to stay awake. I smile at his antics and press a kiss to his forehead. "You need to go to sleep, baby," I whisper. "How about I sing you a song?" He giggles in response.
If I thought waking him up was a mistake this is even worse. I know a lot of songs, a lot of good songs, but none appropriate to sing to a sleeping baby. I sit for a moment and hum absently to myself, running a hand through my baby's silky hair. I'm about to give up and pray he'll fall asleep on his own, when something pops into my head. I've been watching a lot of daytime TV lately and maybe the couple episodes of Sesame Street I sat through are paying off.
Hush little baby don't say a word
Momma's gonna buy you a mockingbird
And if that mocking bird don't sing
Momma's gonna buy you a diamond ring
"That was his favorite song. You used to sing to him every night before bed."
My head jerks up and the last note comes out on a squeak. Sark leans casually in the doorway, one hip pressed firmly against the doorjamb. He's wearing dark pants and dark shirt, but his sleeves are rolled up and the first few buttons of his shirt are undone and his hair looks messy, like he's been running his hands through it. He catches the stricken look on my face and smirks. "Someone got caught with her hand in the cookie jar. You shouldn't be here, Sydney."
I hug my son closer to my chest. "I have every right to be with my son."
"He needs his rest. He's not even two, Sydney. He shouldn't be up this late."
"I know," I say and cringe at the hint of guilt in my voice. I didn't do anything wrong, but Sark makes me feel about two feet tall. "You know, he's been missing his mother for months now. A little reunion's not going to hurt him." My voice is stronger now, the guilt gone, and I smirk broadly myself. "I'm his mother, Sark. You can't tell me what to do."
A frown creases his brow and he ambles over to us and leans down. "Give him to me."
"No!" my voice is higher and louder than I intended, but I hold my ground. "I'm singing him to sleep."
Sark sighs loudly. "As you pointed out, Sydney, you've been gone for months. We have a new routine." Again, the guilt factor sets in and I begin to feel Mommy Dearest; when he reaches for the baby this time I don't put up a fight.
There are many things in my life I thought I'd never see: world peace, Sloane's head on a plate, Kendall getting a clue, but watching Mr. Sark with a baby ranks up there. The man is a trained assassin, cold, heartless, and cruel. He enjoys killing, finds pleasure in other's pain, yet he holds my baby like a piece of porcelain. A smile, a real smile not one of his trademark smirks curves his lips, as he tucks the baby's head into the contours of his chest.
It's quite possibly the sexiest thing I've ever seen. It doesn't matter who the man is, there's just something so sexy about a man and baby it makes me want to drool. . .and reminds me how long it's been since I've gotten any. That makes me jump up real fast. What is wrong with me? Am I so desperate for play that I'm beginning to think Sark, my enemy is attractive? Or are my knees starting to flutter from the way his forearms bulge as he puts the baby in his crib, or the way his pants hang off lean hips, or that fingers I'm so used to handling the barrel of a gun are brushing curls off my baby's brow? I take a shaky breath and run a hand across my eyes. It is time to calm down and get it together. I don't care that we share a child. Sark is still Sark and I'm not backing down.
I join him beside the crib and watch as he draws the blanket up the baby's chin and tucks the stuffed lamb under one arm. "He can't sleep without his blanket," Sark says. "He's had it since the day he was born."
I can't bring myself to speak so I nod instead. Again, that feeling of surrealness overwhelms me. A year ago, if anyone told me I'd be standing beside a crib, bonding over my child with Mr. Sark, I would have laughed in his face. But now, given the course of the last few months nothing seems so strange anymore. We stand in companionable silence, watching our baby sleep. It should feel uncomfortable, but it doesn't, and I'm a little weirded-out by how natural it feels. It makes me wonder even more what happened during the last two years, about this house and this room the relationship we shared.
I gaze down at my son, wondering how two people so wrong for one another could create such a perfect life. "Sark?" I ask, breaking the long silence.
"What?" There's no trace of warmth in his voice, but there's no icy coldness either. I guess that means we're getting somewhere.
"What's his name?" I ask softly
Sark turns from the crib to face me. "Why do you ask?" The coldness is back in his voice and his mouth is set in a thin line again; so much for making progress. Every time he breaks down his wall just a little bit I mention the baby and he clams up again.
"Because I'm his mother." I force my voice to remain as calm as possible. The last thing I want to do is piss him off enough to leave. "Please, tell me. You know I can't remember."
He turns back to the crib. "You named him Adam."
My Vaughn fantasies had always included babies named Tyler or Madison, thoroughly modern, unisex names. But this wasn't Vaughn and this wasn't our baby. Different strokes for different folks, I guess. "Do you know why I picked that name?" I asked softly.
He laughs, but there's nothing humorous. It's harsh and grating and laced with bitterness. I close my eyes for a moment and wonder what I did to make him so angry. We're enemies, we've tried to kill one another numerous times, yet we can't talk about something as simple as baby names? Whatever I did must have been big, painful, to make him this closed off. I just wish I could remember what it was. "It means "mankind." You thought it was fitting, considering your role in the Rambaldi Prophecy."
"Adam," I whisper. "That's a beautiful name."
Finally, a hint of a smirk curves his lips. "His middle name is Michael." I jerk my head up sharply and his smirk grows broader. "After my father. Do you really think I'd name my son after a coward like Michael Vaughn?"
I want to defend Vaughn, I want to tell Sark he's the bravest, kindest, noblest man I know—but I can't, not after his betrayal. I want to forgive him for breaking my heart, but every time I think about him a layer of ice clenches around my heart and I'm reminded of his wedding band glinting in the Hong Kong moonlight. I decide to steer the conversation away from Vaughn. "How old is he?" I ask. "I know he was walking when I. . . when I left. He was running too." Sark turns to me, and unreadable expression in his blue eyes.
"How much do you remember?"
"You didn't answer my question."
"Answer mine first."
I sigh loudly and run a frustrated hand through my hair. "Not much, just little flashes of memory here and there."
"Such as. . ."
My cheeks flame as I remember the beach dream and I'm thankful for the darkness of the room. "You and I on the porch when I was pregnant, playing with my mother and Adam. That's about it. I'm hoping I remember more over the next few days."
"We'll see about that," he mutters under his breath.
I'm a little testy now. I told him what he wanted to know and he still hasn't said anything to me. "I answered your question, now you need to answer mine. How old is Adam?"
He sighs, like he's bored of this conversation. Typical Sark; he's not interested unless it directly benefits him. "Eighteen months."
Tears prick the back of my eyes again. "I've missed so much time," I say and again, the guilt factor sets in.
"Adam has been fine without you. He has other people to care for him."
Now I'm beyond annoyed; I'm just angry. How dare he treat me like I'm inconsequential? I'm Adam's mother! "Like that blonde bimbo hanging all over you?" I hiss angrily. "You think she's an appropriate mother figure for your child!"
He rolls his eyes. "Svetlana is Adam's nanny. She's done a wonderful job of caring for him in your absence." He puts emphasis on the word "absence" and I resist the urge to kick him. It's not fair that he punishes me for something I can't remember. But then I remember this is Mr. Sark and he doesn't understand the concept of playing fair. I'll have to play his game to keep up.
"You're sleeping with her!" I point out. "She's servicing you more than Adam!"
"Sydney, are you jealous?" he smirks.
Now I have to lay a hand on my thigh to keep from kicking him. "Jealous?" I scoff. "Are you insane? I'm worried about my son because the woman taking care of him is more interested in you than his welfare. As of tomorrow she's fired."
"That's my decision."
"Well I want her gone. She looks incompetent and I'm tired of her making a fool of herself because she's in love with you."
He shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly. "Aren't they all?"
I have an angry retort on the tip of my tongue, ready to be fired, but something about the way he said that makes me stop. The words seem to casual, even for Sark. He sounds, like he's overcompensating. . . like he's hiding something. I lay a hand on his arm and he stiffens under my touch. "Was I in love with you too?"
For the briefest of moments something like pain flashes in his eyes only to be replaced by burning anger. He jerks out of my touch and crosses his arms over his chest. "Are you insane?" he mimics my earlier question. He reaches out and cups my chin in one hand, sending a spark of heat across my skin. I take in a shaky breath and try to ignore the heat burning it's way up my neck. He bends his head, lowers his mouth so it hovers barely an inch over mine, and I close my eyes as his lips brush mine once, twice, three times. I melt against his mouth and twine one hand in his hair. I hear him laugh and pull away slightly. I open my eyes to find him watching me with amused blue eyes, mocking me and how easily I give in. This is a game to him, a way to best Sydney Bristow, and I fell for it hook, line, sinker. I start to pull away, but he wraps an arm my back, pressing me against his chest. I stare up at him with wide eyes. "We hate one another, Sydney," he whispers against my mouth." "What makes you think we'd ever be in love?"
He pulls away before I can answer and walks out the door, cold laughter echoing in his wake. I press a shaky hand to my mouth and wonder what the hell just happened. I kissed Sark, or rather he kissed me, and I enjoyed it. In fact, I more than enjoyed it. If I wasn't in so much shock I'd run down that hall, push him against a wall, and tear his clothes off. But I'm so spooked I can barely stand. I collapse against the wall and sink to the floor, drawing my knees to my chest. He said he hates me; he said I hate him; he said we could never be in love. I look at the crib standing before me, think of the baby sleeping peacefully within its walls, and know there's more to it. Somewhere along the way I fell in love with Sark. I just can't remember it.
~ * ~
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