Chapter 12:

Jack turned on the small lamp sitting on top of his desk, and sat back in his chair. His house was darkened and empty, the silence allowing his thoughts to parade through his mind without end. Another Christmas, and still, the man found himself alone; no presents, no tree, no eggnog, nothing. While his daughter had extended an invitation to spend Christmas Eve with her and her friends, Jack had decided against it, both out of habit and slightly out of anxiety. Irritably, he picked up the phone.

Hello? Dr. Barnett? This is Agent Bristow.

Hello Jack, she said groggily, what can I do for you at this time of night?

He paused, questioning his sanity for the hundredth time since leaving Irina's cell, There's been a development with Derevko.

Oh yes, your ex-wife, the woman's dislike seeped into her voice.

That would be the development; she may not be my ex-wife.



The marriage may still be intact.

Ah, I see. And how does this make you feel?

Uh, not good, Jack smacked his forehead with his free hand. That was eloquent, Bristow, he berated himself silently.

Go on, encouraged Dr. Barnett.

I don't know what to feel. I can't see what strategic advantage she is trying to gain by playing the marriage card.

Well, Jack, she sighed, vaguely wishing that the man on the other end of the phone would get worked up over her instead, not everything revolves around strategy and game theory.

Jack laughed mirthlessly, We're dealing with Irina Derevko; everything is a game to her. The woman is a sociopath, a criminal mastermind who will take the first opportunity given to betray me...Sydney, that is, again.

The slight slip did not go unheeded by Dr. Barnett, who smiled, What if she isn't looking to betray you and your daughter? What if she has been honest about her motives for being here?

The idea, not new to Jack, left his mind running in circles, yet again.

After listening to silence for a moment, she continued, What if she is trying to find out if her place as Laura has been supplanted by some other woman? What if she is just merely...

Thank you, Dr. Barnett, Jack interrupted and hung up the phone, and unplugged it from the wall.

He sat, idly tapping his fingers as he pondered all possible scenarios and motives that Irina could possibly have.

About twenty minutes later, his doorbell rang, breaking the trance that had descended upon him. Checking his watch, Jack wondered who could possibly be at his door at midnight on Christmas Eve. Surprise briefly showed on his features when he opened to the door to find his daughter, Sydney standing on the steps.

she started, as she stepped through the doorway, why didn't you come over to my apartment tonight?

He sighed, Sydney, I had to be at the Ops center tonight.

Oh, did you sign up for that shift? Sydney thought to herself, Or did they just know automatically that you'd do anything in your power to avoid spending time with your daughter?

Is something wrong? he asked, wearily.

Not noticing the stress that emanated from her father, Sydney commented, I should ask the same question of you. What's going on that you called Dr. Barnett in the middle of the night? What's so awful that she called me to ask me to check in on you?

Jack's eyes narrowed, She called you?

Dad, what is it?

He paused, thinking for a moment about what he should tell his daughter.

And tell me the truth, I don't need any more lies in my life.

Jack sighed, wishing once again that his daughter had never entered this life, Well, Sydney, it's about your mother.

What did she do now? Did she break her immunity agreement? Sydney's eyes widened, showing her concern for her mother.

Her reaction not lost on Jack, he continued, Well, you see, she brought it to my attention that our marriage may actually still be intact.

Sydney grinned slightly, You mean all this fuss was just about the fact that you and mom are married?

Jack glared at her.

Oh come on dad, there could be worse things. I mean, you could be married to Barnett, Sydney quickly shut her mouth, shocked that she had actually said that last part aloud.

He wrinkled his nose at the idea of being married to Judy, he admitted.

Then what's the problem?

This brought Jack back to the issue at hand, Your mother is a murderer, she betrayed and abandoned you, she is an enemy of this country. A terrorist. I am married to a terrorist b*tch who ruined countless lives.

Sydney's face became cold, oddly mimicking her father's face, That terrorist b*tch' is my mother.

Your mother died over twenty years ago!

You know what I think, she shouted angrily, I think you loved her so much you lost your soul when she left. That there was nothing left inside you. And now that she's back, you've found out that you still love her more than anything. And that drives you insane. Sydney turned towards the door. Don't bother, she waved her hand, tossing her head angrily, when she saw him stand to see her to the door. I can show myself out, Sydney snapped, walking out of the room, the front door slamming marking her departure.

Jack got up from his seat, fuming at his daughter and the lack of understanding she had for his current predicament with her mother. His pacing continued until he realized that he was going to wear a trench in the hardwood floor. He stopped and glanced over at the hole that he had punched earlier in the plaster of the wall. Sighing, Jack picked up his car keys from the counter and went to his garage.

About fifteen minutes later, Jack found himself parking his car in front of a bar with bright neon signs announcing that he had arrived at He walked in and immediately took a seat at the bar, signaling to the bartender to bring him a glass and a bottle of scotch--the same thing he always ordered when he escaped to the bar. When the barkeep came back, Jack quickly poured himself a glass and tossed back the drink, not taking the time to savor the taste. He poured himself a second glass and settled in for a long evening of trying to numb the pain, confusion and misery that had flooded his stone facade, leaving his heart on his sleeve, bloody and wounded for all to see.

An hour later, Jack slumped over with his head in his hands, an empty bottle perched precariously at the edge of the bar along side his empty glass.

he started to mumble hoarsely, God...Dear Father in Heaven, I'm not much of a praying man, but if you're up there and you can hear me, show me the way. I'm at the end of my rope. Show me the way, God.

He looked upwards, towards the heavens, as if waiting for an answer, when a hand clamped down on his shoulder, causing Jack to whip around, wobbling slightly on his stool.

Sir, I think that it's time for you to go home, said a tall man with indistinct features who was wearing a dark suit.

Who the hell are you to tell me what to do? I'm ol... he slurred, older than you; didn't your mama ever teach you to respect your elders? Jack's speech was notably blurred, mushing his words together.

Agent Bristow, who I am is not important. You have friends in high places looking out for you, responded the other man, who reflected back upon the conversation he had earlier that night with the head of SD-6.

Agent Bristow? Jack stood up sharply. Yes, I do think I'll be leaving now, thank you. He took out his wallet and roughly pulled out a wad of money. Doing so, he noticed a hole in the seams and was surprised to pull out a heavily creased and yellowing photo. A picture of Laura. I say a prayer for the first time in years, and this is what I get? he shouted at the ceiling, waving around the picture angry at the reminder of his troubles. He threw down some money on the counter and stalked out the door, not noticing that he had stuck the photo into his pocket.

When the buzz of discussion about Jack's departure in the bar had lessened, the man pulled out a cell phone from the inner pocket of his jacket, dialed a number, and said, Sir...we found Bristow where you told us he'd be and sent him home. Yes sir, that will be taken care of as well.

Meanwhile, after struggling with his seat belt, Jack pulled away from the curve driving aimlessly and erratically, weaving down a deserted street in the direction of a bridge long forgotten. The darkness of midnight shrouded the street in an unholy cloak of nothingness mixed with the sounds of the pouring rain. The headlights of his black Lincoln, government-issue, pierced through the darkness as he approached a bridge that had long haunted his dreams. Suddenly, he swerved and crashed into a tree near the sidewalk of a house. Jack got out to look at the damage, and savagely kicked at the open door of the car, trying to shut it. The noise brought the owner of the house running out to find the hooligan who interrupted his sleep.

What do you think you're doing? asked the man.

Jack stood unsteadily near his car, shaken by the accident, dully looking at the damage. The front lights were broken and the fender was ripped. The owner came up, looking at his tree, and leaned over to examine the damages.

With indignation, the man shouted, Now look what you did. My great-grandfather planted this tree.

Jack staggered off down the street, paying no attention to the man.

Hey, you... he continued to yell, Hey, you! Come back here, you drunken fool! Get this car out of here!

Jack approached the bridge and slowly slid out on a rusty catwalk used by workers to repair the bridge almost twenty years ago. Stopping by the railing at the center of the bridge, he looked upwards, gazing at the sky while the rain splattered across his face. He stared down at the water, desperate, trying to make up his mind to act. He leaned over, looking at the water, fascinated, and glanced furtively around him. Releasing his grip on the railing, he spread his arms, ready to fall, spread-eagle, into the swirling waters that claimed the live of his years before.

Before he made his move, a body hurtled past Jack and landed in the water with a loud splash. Jack looked down, horrified.

A voice from the river called, Help! Help!

Jack quickly took off his suit jacket and dove into the water, and swam towards the other man who was flailing about in the water.

Help! Help! Help! shouted the man, who in actuality, was Milo.

The guard at the end of the bridge, hearing the cries for help, came running out on the bridge with a flashlight, which he shone on the two figures struggling in the water below.

Moments later, Jack, the guard, and Milo sat inside the toll house for the bridge, that hadn't been used for its original purpose in years. The building currently belonged to a wealthy couple, as it sat next to their driveway. The guard, for the said couple's estate, had generously opened up the building for the two shivering men, and gave each a cup of coffee to help warm them. Jack sat in front of a wood-burning stove, before which his cloths were drying on a line. He sat in his drenched boxers, clutching an old blanket around him as he sipped at the mug of hot coffee, staring at the flames. Cold, gloomy and drunk, Jack ignored Milo and the guard, preoccupied by his near suicide as well as his unsolved problems. Milo stood at the other side of the fire, putting on his undershirt; a ludicrous sixteenth century garment which fell past his knees.

The guard was seated against the wall, eyeing them suspiciously, especially Milo, who noticed this immediately.

I didn't have time to get some stylish underwear. My wife gave me this on my last birthday. I passed away in it, he told the guard, who abruptly stopped, his coffee halfway to his mouth. Oh, the Inferno's drying out, too. You should read the new book Dante's writing now, Milo added while picking up his book and idly shaking it.

The guard stared at him incredulously, Now how exactly did you happen to fall in?

I didn't fall in. I jumped in to save Jack, he explained.

Jack looked up, surprised, You what? To save me?

Well, I did, didn't I? said Milo with a huff, You didn't go through with it, did you?

Go through with what? asked Jack.



The guard raised his eyebrows and wished for the third time that night that he hadn't left his station, It's against the law to commit suicide around here, he commented.

Yeah, it's against the law where I come from, too,

Where do you come from? the man asked, moving to take a sip of his coffee.

Milo said simply.

The man spit out his coffee. Eyeing Milo and Jack anxiously, he began to back away, deciding to return to the safety of his heated booth.

Milo smiled, and addressed Jack, I had to act quickly; that's why I jumped in. I knew if I were drowning you'd try to save me. And you see, you did, and that's how I saved you.

Jack glanced at the strange smiling little man a second time, Very funny, he said in an offhanded manner.

That picture in your pocket looks like it's pretty important to you, Jack, commented Milo.

Jack reached into his pocket and crumpled the picture, Yeah, it was. But now it's just an miserable reminder of how big a fool I was to think someone'd love me. Found it in answer to a prayer a little bit ago, he mumbled.

Milo turned around and faced Jack, Oh, no, no, no. I'm the answer to your prayer, Jack. That's why I was sent down here.

How do you know my name? asked Jack, feigning casual interest in the other man, still considering the photo clenched in his fist.

Thinking back to The Best of Jack Bristow, which he had just finished watching, he answered, Oh, I know all about you. I've watched you grow up from a little boy.

Jack whipped around and pounced on the other man, grabbing him by his throat and throwing him up against the wall,Who are you? Security Section? SD-6? CIA? NSC?

Oh, no, Milo said, an amused glint shining in his eyes.

Who are you, then? Do you work for The Man?'

Milo Rambaldi, A-S-2.

Jack trailed off before fixing his icy glare back upon the other man. Knocking his head against the wall, he began again, Don't play games with me; you will lose. Who are you? Seconds later, A-S-2...what is that supposed to mean? he demanded, his grip tightening slightly.

Angel, Second Class.

With that, Jack released the other man in shock, backing against the opposite wall and pulling out his gun, eying him critically. Moments later, he settled his gun back in his shoulder holster and ran his fingers through his hair, I shouldn't have been drinking.

He looked over at Milo standing beside him, "Why would you want to save me?"

"That's what I was sent down for. I'm your guardian angel," Milo said with a certain amount of self-satisfaction.

"Isn't it quite fitting for me to have Rambaldi for a guardian angel," Jack remarked, mostly to himself.

Ridiculous of you to think of killing yourself because of your wife. Irina loves you, you know, he added in an offhand fashion.

Bewildered, Jack's eyes were like saucers, She does? His lips twitched upwards, a tiny smile lightening his features before his eyebrows knit together again. An international terrorist who betrayed me and her daughter? Who in their right mind would want that. More importantly, how would you possibly know something like that?

Well first of all, I'm Milo Rambaldi...I know everything. Obviously, I would know about the mother of the woman in my prophecy, he rolled his eyes. And I told you--I'm your guardian angel. I know everything about you.

Assuming that this is all true, and not some delusion, you look about like the kind of an angel I'd get. Sort of a fallen angel. What happened to your wings? Jack asked.

Irritably, Milo spat, I haven't won my wings yet. That's why I'm an angel Second Class.

Jack's lips twisted in a wry smile, I don't know whether I like it very much being seen around with an angel without any wings.

Oh, I've got to earn them, and you'll help me, won't you? he whined.

Humoring him, Jack responded, Sure, sure. How?

By letting me help you.

Only one way you can help me. You don't happen to be able to go back in time?

Milo pondered this, Well, I suppose I could create a device that would allow time-travel, but I'd have to build all of the parts, and then I'd have to write out manuscripts using secret Rambaldi juice, and then I'd have to hide all of the parts across the globe, and then... he trailed off. Wait a second, no. I'm not building you a time-traveling device; I'm not Doc Brown, Marty.

Then there's not much you can do for me, unless you can kill Arvin Sloane.

Oh, tut, tut, tut, Milo said, not my biggest fan.

Then you're no use to me. Seems as though it'd all be easier if I was dead, remarked Jack.

Anxiously, Milo responded, Now look, you mustn't talk like that. I won't get my wings with that attitude. You just don't know all that you've done. If it hadn't been for you...

Jack interrupted him, Yeah, if it hadn't been for me, everybody'd be a lot better off. My daughter, my wife, my friends, everyone. Annoyed with Milo, he added, Look, why don't you go off and haunt somebody else.

No, you don't understand. I've got a task here... started Milo.

Jack pulled out his gun, and the angel shut his mouth.

Milo crossed his arms, irritated at the fact that he was not getting very far with Jack. He began pacing back and forth across the room, glancing up occasionally, mumbling to himself, Hmmm, this isn't going to be so easy. Turning towards Jack, he asked, So you still think killing yourself would make everyone feel happier, eh?

A dejected look passed across Jack's face as he thought of his daughter, Oh, I don't know. I guess you're right. I suppose it would have been better if I'd never been born at all.

Milo's eyes widened in surprise, What'd you say?

I said I wish I'd never been born.

Oh, you mustn't say things like that. You... he paused, an idea hitting him. ...Wait a minute. Wait a minute. That's an idea, Milo glanced up towards Heaven, continuing, What do you think? Yeah, that'll do it. All right. He looked back at Jack and said, You've got your wish. You've never been born.

With this, the rain stopped falling outside the building and a strong wind sprung up, blowing open the door, leaving Milo to run over and close it.

He looked upward and shouted, You don't have to make all that fuss about it.

At this, Jack cocked his head curiously, What did you say?

You've never been born. You don't exist. You haven't a care in the world, Milo said, waving his arms about, No worries, no obligations, no wives who were KGB agents coming back from the dead, no Lindsay waiting for his opportunity to throw you in prison.

Jack ran his hand through his hair, I shouldn't have drank that Scotch, he thought to himself.

Your picture's gone, Jack, commented Milo.

He reached into his pocket, and found no sign of the photograph that had irritated him so greatly in the bar.

Thoroughly confused, Jack murmured, What do you know about that...What's happened? He looked around, as though to get his bearings, It's stopped raining out, hasn't it? What's happened here? Jack stood up. Come on, as soon as these clothes are dry... he started.

Putting on a mysterious air, Milo responded, Our clothes are dry.

Jack felt his shirt, So they are, he said, frowning slightly. Now get your clothes on, and we'll walk to my car and get...

Milo started buttoning up his shirt, while Jack stood contemplating his words.

Pressing his lips tightly together, he added, Oh, I'm sorry. I'll walk. You fly.

I can't fly. I haven't got any wings, complained Milo.

You haven't got your wings, Jack said, thinking over the sentence. Yeah, that's right, he added.

TBC