Jack paused at the entrance to the Ops Center bullpen, suddenly reticent. The last time he had seen his colleagues, he'd been escorted out in handcuffs, choked with fury.
Perp walked out of the Ops Center, unable to help Sydney. What an idiot. Jack stared unseeingly at the opposite wall of the prison van, hands cuffed together, struggling to recover his equilibrium. Even with years of practice at compartmentalization, he was having difficulty focusing.
Was it only 18 hours ago, he wondered? When he had wept in relief and joy at the sight of his daughter, alive, on the video from Lazarey's office? He had almost worn out the replay button. That she had been murdering a Russian diplomat, in cold blood, had only penetrated his consciousness some time later. Because, after all, alive and in trouble was infinitely better than dead.
He would find her. He would protect her. And he would have a second chance, one that he would not waste. Because regrets, he had found, could last a lifetime.
Filled with hope, he had floated into the Jt Ops building the next morning, hugging his secret close. He would pull everything the CIA had on Lazarey then contact Irina. Together they'd find her.
Just another example of what hope could do, he reminded himself darkly, scanning the dingy interior of the van. He'd walked into a trap and been too distracted to judge its seriousness until it was too late. And misplayed it. For the love of god, why had he openly defied Lindsey? The smart strategy would have been to string him along and buy time. But, thought Jack bitterly as he recalled the second photo, Lindsey had pushed all his buttons. A wave of rage swept him. Not Lindsey. Sloane. Sloane had outplayed him.
It was up to Irina now. Jack only had one move left – to protect Irina so that she could protect Sydney. He swallowed, knowing what that would entail. Prison. And trust. Neither would be easy. But for a second chance with Sydney, he would have sold his soul.
You got the second chance, he reminded himself. Don't blow it this time. He squared his shoulders and entered the bullpen. The hush that fell over the room was daunting, but no sign of his discomfort showed on his face. His eyes swiveled around the room until he found the face that he was looking for. Sydney.
Sydney looked up and with widened eyes, saw her father walking towards her. She rushed towards him and put her arms around him, hugging him. Overwhelmed, Jack hugged her back, eyes closed, savoring the moment.
"Thank you," Jack whispered, touching her hair and face tenderly.
The stunned silence was, to Jack's horror, broken by clapping. As the wave of applause swept the room. Jack's ears reddened, but he did not release his daughter. Second chance, he reminded himself resolutely. The clapping broke off and people began returning to their work, laughing and chatting.
Jack took a step back and looked at Sydney. "You look so - ,"
"I know," she said, smiling through the tears in her eyes, "beautiful. What a typical Dad you are." She caught herself and wrinkled her nose. "Well. . . maybe not typical, exactly. . . ," she amended, grinning.
Jack leaned in closer, saying in an low, urgent voice, "There's something I need to show you... not here." Sydney nodded imperceptibly. "Are you free for dinner?" he asked in a normal tone.
"Of course," Sydney responded easily. "Where would you like to go?"
"I was hoping you'd come to my apartment."
Sydney shot a sharp glance at him. Not a restaurant. She wondered what he was planning to show her. "What are you serving?" she asked, playing along.
Jack looked abashed. "I haven't planned that far ahead. I don't have any food at home. . . I thought maybe I'd just order in Chinese."
Sydney rolled her eyes. "Why don't I go shopping for you? I'll cook for us tonight," said Sydney firmly. Honestly. In prison for a year and the first thing he was planning to eat was takeout Chinese.
**
Sydney kicked open the door to Jack's apartment with one foot, loaded down with groceries. "Dad? You here?" She peered into the semidarkness of the living room and saw him sitting motionless on the couch.
"Dad?"
Jack looked up, startled. "Oh, hi, sweetheart. Here, let me help you with those."
"Are you okay, Dad?" Sydney examined her father closely. Lines of exhaustion were evident on his face.
"I'll be fine," he said with a tired smile. "After 12 months of silence, the Ops Center was a bit of an overload today. Last time - ," he hesitated.
"Last time, what, Dad?" prompted Sydney, quietly.
"It took me a couple of weeks last time to adjust back," he admitted slowly. "But what did you bring?"
Sydney allowed him to change the subject and bustled into the kitchen. Jack growled appreciatively as she unpacked steaks, salad, bread, and a bottle of Merlot. Sydney shot a critical look at her father. "You've lost weight. Didn't they feed you?"
"And here I thought I was looking svelte," he replied lightly, repressing the image of the unrecognizable hash he had been served each meal.
"Hmpf," Sydney replied skeptically. She turned her efforts to finding a vase for the flowers she had bought. "I'm sorry I wasn't here when you came home this morning, Dad. Lindsey refused to say exactly when you'd be released."
"That's okay, sweetheart," replied Jack, touched. "I. . . needed some time to myself, anyway."
Odd, thought Sydney to herself. He needed some time to himself after a year in solitary? She shrugged and turned back to the food and for a while they worked in companionable silence, Sydney cooking, Jack setting the table and pouring the wine.
"Where did you learn to cook like this?" Jack said in admiration as Sydney expertly flipped the steaks. "When you left for college the most you could manage was scrambled eggs."
Sydney turned with a smile. "Oh, living with Francie - ," she halted, paralyzed. IwantmydadIwantmydadIwantmydad. "Dad?" she said tremulously, beginning to shake.
Jack rapidly put down his wine and wrapped his arms around her tightly. "Go ahead," he said gently. "Finish the sentence."
"Living with Francie," Sydney said in a quavering voice, "would m-make anyone a good c-cook. Oh Dad," she sobbed, burying her face in his shoulder. "She's d-dead, isn't she?"
"Yes," said Jack simply, patting her hair. "But the memories are important, Sydney. Her gift to you. Don't lose them too."
"Danny. Francie. Will," she said in a choked voice. "All because of me."
"No," said Jack firmly.
"But they're dead, or their lives are ruined, because they were my friends," Sydney said stubbornly.
"Or because you were my daughter," said Jack somberly.
Sydney pulled back, tears streaking her face. "That's not right," she said heatedly.
Jack regarded her silently, waiting.
"Oh," she said in belated understanding.
Jack nodded. "Not because of either of us. Because of Sloane. Stay focused, Sydney."
Hugging her father tightly, Sydney said in a muffled voice, "I'm so glad you're here. I'm not sure I could do this without you – you're the only one I can trust."
"I'm glad I'm here, too," he said soothingly, glorying in this new closeness with his daughter. "What exactly did you do to get me out?"
Sydney pushed back, wiping the tears from her face. "Unh-uh. If I told you, you'd ground me," she said smiling. "And don't try to interrogate me. I've learned from the best."