Disclaimer: J.J. is God…'nuff said.
Timeline: I wrote this after watching The Frame, and after watching the previews for "Unveiled", but before I actually saw Unveiled.
Rating: PG-13 for violence.
Author's Note: Thank you so much to everyone one who reviewed—I appreciate it immensely. I'm sorry for the delay on this chapter—I was planning to post it last week but I had a big choir competition and prom and was very busy. Luckily, track seasons over, and I'm done with my theater and choir competitions so I should be able to update this much more quickly—if I get enough reviews, I'll try to post the next chapter by Sunday. Anyway, without further ado…Read, Enjoy, and please, please, review. (hey, that rhymes!)
Chapter 1: Acid Suspicion
6 A.M.—Sydney
All too quickly, the minutes whiz by. I've always had an innate ability to tell time, which is great for waking up in the morning and getting to work on time but not so bright in torture situations when time either goes far to slowly during the torturing and much too quickly between sessions.
Creek. I can't help but wince as the door squeaks open and Sark walks in a minute after my mind's told me an hour has passed.
I hate being right all the time.
"Hello Sydney. I'm sorry to see you in such bad spirits. I'm sorry to say that Lauren can't come visit with you at the present moment—quite unfortunately for you someone's just showed her pictures of you and her husband exchanging…err…sentiments in North Korea."
He pauses, as though for dramatic effect, then continues, "I'm afraid she's not very happy. She got a bit hysterical and mentioned something about getting a gun and shooting you. And well, I couldn't just let that happen. I'm rather fond of you, Sydney, and, most importantly, you have important information which will be impossible to extract if you're dead. So I decided to come by and visit you."
I open my eyes and immediately the world starts spinning in circles around my head. Dimly it registers that I must have lost a lot of blood, and I glance down at the hole in my stomach that is causing it to pool around me. That should make an interesting scar.
Observing that he doesn't have my full attention, Sark draws closer to me and whispers, "Listen to me, Sydney. Believe me when I say she will not hesitate to kill you. Trust me, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned."
I do my best to scowl at him and mutter, "As if you wouldn't hesitate to kill me. I'm not going to play along with your little 'good cop/bad cop' routine."
"You'd do well to. I give you my word that when you've given me enough information on The Passenger and Michael Vaughn, I will let you go. I can't promise anything such thing with Lauren."
"I'm sorry Sark, I don't make deals with terrorists."
"Ouch. That one hurt Bristow," he drawls sarcastically, "I'm disappointed in you. You must really be under the weather." He gives my stomach a slight pat and says, with mock concern, "That doesn't look too good, Sydney. You really ought to get it looked at."
The door creeks again and he's gone.
"Thanks for caring," I mumble after him, before darkness grabs me.
*~*~*~*~*
24 hours earlier…
It's as though she had wanted me to find out. As though it was fate, or karma.
I'd been scheduled to go on an operation in Minsk with Weiss which was suddenly canceled. I'd come home early under pretenses of surprising her with take out dinner from her favorite Chinese place. The accusations Sydney had voiced earlier were heavy on my mind, but I thought that by doing this I'd be re-enforcing the normalcy of our lives: just an everyday working couple, enjoying a nice take-out meal in the comforts of our own home after a tiring day at the office.
I could not have been more wrong.
The first clue, of course, was that Lauren was no-where to be found. Not an unusual occurrence—the "NSC" had been sending her to and from Washington at least once a week, but she'd told me she'd be here this week when I told her I had a mission in Belarus. She'd acted quite upset and had complained about how we never spent time together and how she'd specially scheduled a travel-free week for me. But she was nowhere to be seen.
Syd's early accusations launched into my mind all too quickly, and it took a great deal of reason (or blindness) for me to calm my worries. She's probably at the store. Just call her. I hastily dialed her cell phone number, only to hear a continuous ringing and an odd buzzing sound.
She'd left her cell phone on the night-stand. She never leaves her cell-phone; is almost obsessive about making sure that she takes it with her everywhere (that should have been my first clue). Yet here it was lying casually on the floor by the bathroom door as though she'd dropped it in a rush.
I couldn't help but pick it up. I'd
tried once to program my new work number into Lauren's phone—the second she saw
me with it she'd snatched it away, a look of something that resembled panic
fleeting across her eyes. Realizing
that I'd noticed this, she hurried to say, "Sorry love, but I'm expecting a
really important call from Lindsey—I can't miss it."
I can't say that I picked up on this—it was before Sydney had come back and I'd really had no reason whatsoever to suspect her for anything. But now, as I studied the phone which she'd never since left casually lying around, I couldn't help but categorize the incident atop a growing pile of suspicions in my mind.
Buzz
I was jolted out of my jog down doubt-my-wife lane by the phone's sudden jerk in my hands. It was ringing. I glanced down at the phone's face where it read "unknown name/unknown number"—a blocked call. To my knowledge, the NSC did not block it's numbers when making phone calls to acknowledged employees.
At that moment I knew that I was going to open the phone, and that this would irrevocably change my relationship with Lauren. Even if it was just a wrong number, I knew that my opening the phone would mark some symbolic step as the moment that the doubts I had been trying to push to the back of my mind became real. Even if it was nothing, it would be the materialization of my distrust in my wife, and could cause major relationship problems. At that moment, I also realized that I didn't care.
I opened the phone and said nothing, waiting for the caller to speak first. An all-too familiar British accent answered.
"I've got a present for you, love. You'll be quite pleased—I got Bristow."
TBC
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
AN: Okay guys, I realize that this is a short chapter, but I'm almost completely done with the next one and I'll try to get it out by Sunday before Alias. Of course, I would definitely get it out if I get enough reviews (no, I'm not trying to blackmail you for reviews with my fic, but reviews really, really make me write faster). So, please just write a two second review and tell me what you think of it so far—I'd greatly appreciate it.
Thanks for reading,
~Terin:-)