AN: Wow, it's taking so long to write this story! I'm only on the tenth chapter and I've been working on this for so many weeks! Slow going, I suppose. This portion was so much easier to write than the last. It was quite a problem to figure out what to replace the Great Depression with in the story. Oh well--what's done is done. Thanks, as always, for your reviews; please keep them coming! And here is the tenth chapter, without further ado (about nothing)!

Chapter Ten:

An old-fashioned, three story brownstone, much like the house that Jack's parents lived in, stood at three-twenty Sycamore. The doors and window frames were warped by the weather, the paint peeling off in large strips. The somewhat run-down house, which once, clearly, had class, had not been lived in for years.

A taxi pulled up to the curb in front of the brownstone, rain falling in torrents, the headlights of the car lost in the darkness of the storm. Jack Bristow got out of the taxi and dashed over to the overhang of the front door, stopping to make sure he was at the right number before going up the steps.

Off to the side of the house, Arvin and Ben worked quickly in the rain, sorting through travel posters.

Hey, these are from the agency's front company in the travel agency; they're not going to like this, commented Ben.

How would you like to baby-sit the Farm-fresh' recruits again next week? Haven't you any romance in you? Arvin asked.

Sure I have, but my last girlfriend got rid of it, his friend said.

When was that? Two years ago? asked Arvin, teasing the other man. He picked up a poster, Frequent flyer miles? What? They want romantic places, beautiful places...places where they were supposed to go to on their honeymoon, he said, reading it.

A sharp whistle was heard. Bill, the young man from the office, leaned out the window.

Hey, guys, here he comes, he called. I still can't believe I got roped into this. How did that happen again?

Ben whispered loudly, Because you don't have anything better to do than make up for the fact that your boss can't go on his honeymoon.

Good reason, came Bill's response as he left the window.

Come on, we got to get this up, Arvin said.

The two men worked diligently on the side of the house, putting up travel posters to cover up the broken windows.

Get that ladder up here, Arvin ordered.

All right--all right, muttered Ben, who wasn't too fond of heights.

Hurry up...hurry up...hurry up, added Arvin, nervously.

I'm hurrying, the other man grumbled.

Back at the front door, Jack was walking up the steps, noticing a sign pinned to the door that read, Bridal Suite. Bill looked out through the curtain covering the broken glass of the front door.

Hey Ja... started Bill, who quickly corrected himself. Good evening, sir.
He opened the door, revealing himself to be dressed as a butler. I work for the world's largest costume shop, thought Bill, who was wearing a black jacket with long tails and a white dress shirt, complete with white bow tie.

Entrez-vous, monsieur, he instructed.

Jack stepped through the door and allowed Bill to take his coat and hat. The house was carpetless, the hardwood floors scratched, and empty--the rain and wind causing funny noises upstairs. A huge fire was burning in the fireplace. Near the fireplace a folding card table was covered with a checkered oil cloth, set for two. A bucket with ice and a champagne bottle sat on the table as well as a bowl of caviar. Two small chickens were impaled on a spit over the fire. A record is playing, perched on a box, and a string from the record player turned the chickens on the spit. The record player was playing Billie Holiday's Embraceable You. Laura was standing near the fireplace, the light of the flames giving her face a soft glow, her long hair flowing around her like a veil. She was smiling at Jack, who had been slowly taking in the whole setup, a dumbstruck look on his face. Through a door he noted the end of a cheap bed, over the back of which was a pair of pajamas and a silk nightgown.

Monsieur, j'espère que vous avez une bonne nuit, said Bill, breaking the silence as he exited. Pouvez vous avoir une nuit occupée, he added as he shut the door.

Tears welling up in the corners of her eyes, Laura quietly said, Welcome home, Mr. Bristow.

Well, I'll be...Laura, Laura, where did you... Jack started incredulously, looking around the room.

Laura rushed over to her husband and wrapped her arms around him, resting her head on his chest as she listened to his heartbeat, tears freely falling from her eyes.

Jack whispered, It's okay. I love you Laura; I love you with all that I am.

Outside the nearest window, Arvin, Eric and Bill stood in the pouring rain and started to sing I Love You Truly.

Jack smiled at the sound of his friends serenading them. Laura moved back from him, and looked into his eyes.

Remember the night we wished on the shooting stars? This is what I wished for, said Laura, kissing him softly on the lips.

Darling, you're wonderful, Jack murmured into her hair, pulling his wife into his arms once again; a moment of pure and simple bliss.

Back outside, the trio finished their song and Ben kissed Arvin on the forehead. A moment passed, Bill's eyes flitting from one man to the other, curiously and nervously waiting for a reaction. Then, Arvin smacked Ben upside the head and stalked off to the car. Ben and Bill shared a look of shared amusement and dashed off in pursuit of Arvin.

Milo and Joseph sat back, watching as the next two years flew by, as if there was a heavenly remote control that fast-forwarded through the story of Jack's life. Then a new scene came before them, presenting itself normally.

The ballroom of an elegant hotel was filled with couples milling about, some dancing, some talking, some sipping at aperitifs, some eating. The ballroom had been rented out by the Class of 1970 for a reunion; their alumni committee decided to get everyone together after only four years, instead of waiting for five. Ben Devlin and Arvin Sloane helped to organize this event, and, as Ben eloquently put it, Everybody who's anybody has a reunion at four years; only losers go for five and ten, explaining the unusual choice in time.

Jack and Laura Bristow were dancing slowly with one another to the jazz that was playing. Laura was wearing Jack's favourite dress; a silk white strapless dress that fell to mid-calf, accenting her long legs. Jack, in turn, was wearing a suit with a navy bow tie that his wife had picked out, very reminiscent of the night they first danced with one another. A new song came on; Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong began to sing Dancing Cheek to Cheek, as the DJ changed the record.

Jack pulled his wife closer, their cheeks barely touching one another.
Heaven, I'm in heaven, he began to sing quietly with the record. And my heart beats so that I can hardly speak...

Laura chimed in, and I seem to find the happiness I seek...

When we're out together dancing cheek to cheek, they sang together.

The young couple continued singing to each other, happily twirling and moving across the floor, alone in their one private world.

Bob Lindsay stood across the room, the epitome of a successful, up-and-coming agent of the NSC. His wife, standing next to him, was a very attractive, sophisticated-looking lady, dripping with furs and jewels. Bob was watching Jack closely from his vantage point at the other side of the ballroom.

That old Jack... he's always talking about some intellectual thing or another, commented Bob to his wife. That's his wife, Laura, the woman he's dancing with, he added. Bob saw Jack notice his presence and waved at him.

On the other side of the room, Jack said quietly to his wife, Look, Bob Lindsay's here!

Oh, who cares, Laura whispered, placing a kiss on her husband's cheek. And the cares that hung around me through the week, seems to vanish like a gambler's lucky streak, when we're out together dancing cheek to cheek, she sang quietly into his ear, picking up with the song.

Meanwhile, at the same time, back at Langley, Paul Lindsay was seated in his wheelchair at his desk, with his assistant beside him. An analyst was talking, pointing to reports and diagrams spread out on the desk.

Look, Mr. Lindsay, it's no skin off my nose. I'm just an analyst, started the young man. But you can't laugh off this department of Bristow's any more. Look at it.

The phone rang, and Lindsay picked up the receiver.

Congressman Mokely is here to see you, said the voice of his receptionist.

Oh, tell the congressman to wait, Lindsay told her. Looking back at the analyst, he added, Go on.

Twenty years ago, a half-dozen agents worked here, he pointed to a diagram, at Research and Development. It was a low-budget department that was created by some wishful thinker to manage the invention and development of new ideas for the agency including ops, training techniques, protocol, and so forth. However, in the beginning, it held little weight with the rest of the agency and its recommendations were largely ignored. When some higher-up found out that if the agency had followed the recommendations of Research and Development, $10 million could have been saved, people started to pay attention to Thomas Bristow's brainchild. As the years went by, it became one of the more successful departments to come out of the 50s. Your department, sir, is becoming a joke in comparison to Research and Development. And boy, how the agency is making with those David and Goliath wisecracks!

Oh, they are, are they? Even though they know the Bristows haven't made a dime out of it, Lindsay commented.

You know very well why, responded the analyst. The Bristows were all chumps. Every opportunity to be promoted to a higher rank in the agency, and move beyond the dead-end' position in their department, has been turned down. If I were you, Mr. Lindsay...

Interrupting, Lindsay said, Well, you are not me.

As the analyst stood to leave, he continued, As I say, it's no skin off my nose. But one of these days this bright young man is going to be asking Jack Bristow for a job.

As the analyst exited, Lindsay grumbled, The Bristow family has been a boil on my neck long enough.

He picked up his telephone.

The voice of his receptionist came on the phone, Yes, sir?

Get me Bristow. Get me Bristow now, Lindsay growled.

Back at the hotel, Jack and Laura were talking to Bob Lindsay outside by the curb while he waited for his limo to pick up him and his wife.

We just stopped in town to see my father and so that I could check in with the National Security Council advisor to the President, and then we're going to drive up to our house in the Hamptons, Bob told the Bristows.

Jack said.

Why don't you have your friends join us? asked the blonde woman attached to Bob's side as she stared at Jack.

Why, sure. Hey, why don't you kids drive up with us, huh? asked Bob, who was closely watching Laura.

Oh, I'm afraid I couldn't get away, Bob, explained Jack.

Still got the nose to the old grindstone, eh? he commented. Turning to the woman at his side, Bob said, Jane, I offered to let Jack in on the ground floor of the new business, and he turned me down cold.

Oh, now, don't rub it in, Jack told him.

I'm not rubbing it in, he smiled, which was a sight in itself. Well, I guess we better run along, he continued.

Looks like I've planted the seeds of doubt, Bob thought.

There was handshaking all around as Bob and Jane got into their limo.

Awfully glad to have met you, Lauren, said Jane.

Laura glared at her, It's Laura, she informed her. Nice to meet you too, Laura added as an afterthought.

The other woman opened her mouth, most likely to make a nasty comment, when Jack intervened, he said, putting his arm around his wife in an attempt to hold her back.

Goodbye, Jack, Jane whispered, looking him up and down.
Laura struggled against Jack's arms.

So long, Jack. See you in the funny papers, commented Bob from his seat in the limo.

Goodbye, Bob.

Have fun, added Laura, who, now that the other woman was no longer a threat, was content with her arms wrapped around her husband's waist.

Thanks for dropping by, said Jack.

To the Hamptons! called Bob to the chauffeur.

The big black limousine glided away, leaving Jack standing with his arm around Laura, gazing broodingly after it. They slowly walked over to the parking lot where Jack's old car sat and looked at it silently.

Meanwhile, in heaven, Milo looked over at Joseph questioningly, but the other angel waved his hand, signaling him to wait as the scene changed to the interior of Paul Lindsay's office. Lindsay was lighting a big cigar which he had just given Jack. An indescript assistant stood beside Lindsay's wheelchair, as usual.

Thank you, sir. Quite a cigar, Mr. Lindsay, Jack said.

You like it? They're Cubans; an old friend and contact of mine over there sends them to me, wrapped in a diplomatic pouch. I'll send you a box, he said, a hint of smugness in his voice at finally having something that Jack Bristow wanted.

Ill-at-ease in Lindsay's lair, Jack shifted in his chair nervously, Well, I...I suppose I'll find out sooner or later, but just what exactly did you want to see me about?

Lindsay laughed. Jack, now that's just what I like so much about you, he said pleasantly and smoothly. Jack, I'm an old man, and most people hate me. But I don't like them either, so that makes it all even. You know just as well as I do that I have a part in practically everything in this agency but the Research and Development department. You know, also, that for a number of years I've been trying to get control of it...or kill it. But I haven't been able to do it. You have been stopping me. In fact, you have beaten me, Jack, and as anyone in the government can tell you, that takes some doing. Take during the Pentagon Papers crises, for instance. You and I were the only ones that kept our heads. You saved the Research and Development end of things, and I saved the rest. Except for that fool of a president, of course.

Yes. Well, most people say you stole all the rest, Jack commented, slowly puffing at his cigar.

The envious ones say that, Jack, the suckers, Lindsay responded. Now, I have stated my side very frankly. Now, let's look at your side. Young man, twenty-seven, twenty-eight...married, making, say...four hundred and fifty dollars a week,

Five hundred! Jack said, indignantly.

Five hundred, Lindsay corrected himself. Five hundred. Out of which, after supporting your mother, and paying your bills, you're able to keep, say, a hundred and fifty, if you skimp. A child or two comes along, and you won't even be able to save the hundred and fifty. Now, if this young man of twenty-eight was a common, ordinary agent, I'd say he was doing fine. But Jack Bristow is not a common, ordinary agent. He's an intelligent, smart, ambitious young man--who hates his job--who hates the Research and Development department almost as much as I do. A young man who's been dying to get out on his own ever since he was born. A young man...the smartest one of the crowd, mind you, a young man who has to sit by and watch his friends go places, because he's trapped. Yes, sir, trapped into frittering his life away playing nursemaid to a bunch of new recruits and to a department with no future. Do I paint a correct picture, or do I exaggerate?

Now what's your point, Mr. Lindsay? Jack wondered aloud, mystified.

My point? My point is, I want to hire you.

Dumbfounded, Jack asked, Hire me?

I want you to manage my department, run my ops. Jack, I'll start you out at a hundred thousand dollars a year.

Jack dropped the cigar on his lap. He nervously brushed off the sparks from his clothes.

Flabbergasted, he started, A hundred...a hundred thousand dollars a year?

You wouldn't mind living in the nicest house in town, buying your wife a lot of fine clothes, a couple of business trips to New York a year, maybe once in a while Europe. You wouldn't mind that, would you, Jack? asked Lindsay, his eyebrows raising.

Would I? Jack looked around the office skeptically. You're not talking to somebody else around here, are you? You know, this is me, you remember me? Jack Bristow, Thomas's son?

Oh, yes, Jack Bristow. Whose ship has just come in--providing he has brains enough to climb aboard, Lindsay nodded his head in affirmation.

Well, what about Research and Development?

Oh, confound it, man, are you afraid of success? I'm offering you a position here at a hundred thousand dollars a year, starting today. Is it a deal or isn't it? he demanded.

Well, Mr. Lindsay, I...I ...I know I ought to jump at the chance, but I...I just...I wonder if it would be possible for you to give me twenty-four hours to think it over? Jack looked up, question in his eyes.

Sure, sure, sure. You go on home and talk about it to your wife, he said, waving his hand.

I'd like to do that, Jack nodded.

In the meantime, I'll draw up the papers, continued Lindsay.

All right, sir.

Okay, Jack? Lindsay held out his hand.

Okay, Paul, Jack said, taking the offered hand.

As they shook hands, Jack felt a physical revulsion; Lindsay's hand felt like the cold and clammy hand of Death. After that moment of physical contact, he realized that he never wanted to be associated with Paul Lindsay. Jack dropped his hand with a shudder, peering intently into Lindsay's face.

No...no...no...no, now wait a minute, here! I don't have to talk to anybody! I know right now, and the answer is no! NO! Damnit! Jack shouted vehemently. As he continued, his anger grew exponentially, You sit around here and you spin your little webs and you think the whole world revolves around you and your department. Well, it doesn't, Paul! In the...in the whole vast configuration of things, I'd say you were nothing but a scurvy little spider. You... he trailed off.

Jack stood and turned, yelling at the assistant, impassively standing beside Lindsay's wheelchair, ...And that goes for you too!

As he opened the office door to exit, he shouted at Lindsay's secretary in the outer office, And it goes for you too!

The scene changed once again for the watching eyes of the angels, now showing Jack as he walked up to the front door of his house. Inside the house, Jack trudged up the stairs to the second floor of his house, slowly and methodically moving one foot in front of the other, the trials of his day wearing down on him. Quietly, he turned the doorknob of his bedroom and swung the door open, cursing softly as it creaked. Jack surveyed the room from the door; it was modestly furnished with a cheap bed, a chair, a dresser, a mirror and a small rug.

Sighing, he thought, What kind of life am I providing for Laura? This isn't fair to her.

Laura was asleep in the bed, curled up in a nest of blankets, her hair splayed across the white pillows. After watching his wife from the door way, finally Jack walked in, his head filled with many confusing thoughts, related to incidents in his past.

You wouldn't mind living in the nicest house in town. Buying your wife a lot of fine clothes, going to New York on a business trip a couple of times a year. Maybe to Europe once in a while, echoed the voice of Lindsay.

Jack took off his hat and coat, laying them neatly across the sole chair in the room, and moved over to the dresser and stared at his reflection in the mirror.

Well, if I told you, it might not come true. I guess there's no harm in telling you; I wished that tonight wouldn't end.

While the last memory passed through Jack's mind, his attention was caught by a picture on the wall near the dresser; Laura's sketch of Jack lassoing the moon that had formerly sat in the living room of the apartment she shared with Katie.

Another memory came to him. What is it you want, Laura? You want the moon? If you do, just say the word; I'll throw a lasso around it and pull it down for you.

The sounds of Jack's movements around the room had awoken Laura,
who started to sing their favourite Christmas song, I'm dreaming tonight, of a place I love, even more than I usually do...

Jack walked over and stood at the foot of the bed. he whispered.

she responded, sitting up in the bed.

Laura Bristow, why in the world did you ever marry a guy like me? he asked, flopping down on the bed next to her and leaning on his elbows, his chin resting in his hands as he studied his wife.

To keep from being an old maid, she answered with a serious look on her face.

You could have married Bob Lindsay or anybody else in town, Jack said, brushing a stray hair from her face and tucking it behind her ear, his hand returning to her face and tenderly touching her cheek.

A smile spread across Laura's face, I didn't want to marry anybody else in town, she told him. I want my baby to look like you.

You didn't even have a honeymoon, Jack continued, scooping her up and sitting her on his lap. I promised you... he trailed off, as he kissed her neck. His eyes went wide and his head flew up. ...Your what? he asked quickly.

My baby.

Jack was incredulous, You mean...Laura, you're having a baby? My baby? Our baby?

Jack Bristow lassos the stork, she said, turning so that she faced him, watching his face for some sign of a reaction.

Lassos the stork! Jack exclaimed, his eyes lighting up. You mean you...what is it, a boy or a girl? he asked, holding her upper arms.

Laura nodded her head happily.

Jack, shock still apparent on his face, took his wife in his arms and held her close, kissing her first on the forehead, then on her nose, and then on her lips. Turning them around, he laid his wife carefully on the bed, and began to kiss every inch of her body, love radiating from the couple.

TBC

Little note: The French that Bill spoke translates to this: Enter, sir, enter, Sir, I hope that you have a good evening, and May you have a busy night. And I did it all myself--studying languages through high school and uni does that to a person!