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Part 12 : White Chocolate
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"'Have some wine,' the March Hare said in an encouraging tone.' " He spoke in an erratic, screeching voice.

"Alice looked all round the table, but there was nothing on it but tea. I don't see any wine,' she remarked.'" High-pitched, sing-song. Sydney giggled freely.

"There isn't any,' said the March Hare.


Then it wasn't very civil of you to offer it,' said Alice angrily.


"It wasn't very civil of you to sit down without being invited,' said the March Hare.


I didn't know it was your table,' said Alice: it's laid for a great many more than three.'


Your hair wants cutting,' said the Hatter. He had been looking at Alice for some time with great curiosity, and this was his first speech."

Outside, it rained. A low, hazy curtain of humid grey droplets.

-

There was nothing different about that day. He woke to an empty bed, delivered his children to school, drove to work in his 4-year-old BMW. He sat in his office reviewing reports and agent statistics, the latest intel on their disappearing enemies, drank his coffee and signed his name and nothing, nothing told him that a maelstrom was coming.

A brisk phone call. Security section.

"Agents Weiss and Bristow are here to see you."

The phone to his ear, he stared at Jack Bristow across the desk.

"Send them up," he ordered.

-

Torture, bullet wounds, knife wounds, bruises, burns, broken bones. A traumatic childhood and a lifetime of following gruesome orders. All that he could withstand, but Sydney Bristow shockingly and frequently drove him over the edge.

Oh, he knew she would take the car. Anymore Sark didn't really care. But her insistence on keeping things even, of stripping him of his right for revenge...

He instantly noticed the narrow strip of electrician tape blocking the deadbolt in the door to her vacated hotel room. A gentle push, the door slid open. On the table, the admired Dakota T-76 rifle, a note scribbled hectically nearby.

The trigger guard is slightly rusted. Be careful when it's cold outside.

A car for a sniper rifle. Fair trade, by their profession's standards. Grunting with annoyance, he shouldered the rifle and ripped the tape from the doorway. Waited 20 minutes - he followed them at a distance down the torn, empty highway.

-

Jack knew something was wrong. Right. Different.

Sydney was back.

He felt her the second she walked into the cluttered office, stepped off the elevator arm-in-arm with Weiss and surveyed her lost colleagues with uncertainty. No one noticed, at first, swept their gazes past her and didn't give it another thought.

Marshall reacted first. His scattered explanation stumbled to a halt and he ran, dropped his newly designed trinket onto the tabletop and jogged toward the weary duo. He hugged Sydney, took in her battered appearance without comment and hugged her ecstatically.

Silence. A thousand crucial operations going at once and the CIA taskforce went completely quiet. Stared. Wondered.

"Syd?" Vaughn, from across the room, stood frozen beside his wife. Somewhere between tears and a grin.

Dixon watched from within his office, face-to-face with her father.

"Is she really there?" Jack said emotionlessly, his back to the scene.

"She's alive, Jack. She's here. Weiss actually found her this time."

-

"Not the same thing a bit!' said the Hatter. Why, you might just as well say that "I see what I eat" is the same thing as "I eat what I see!"'


You might just as well say,' added the March Hare, that "I like what I get" is the same thing as "I get what I like"!'


You might just as well say,' added the Dormouse, which seemed to be talking in its sleep, that "I breathe when I sleep" is the same thing as "I sleep when I breathe"!'"

Smiling softly, she lay back across the couch. She glanced through the empty window. Somewhere, nearby, Sark was watching. Waiting.

-

Fading bruises, careful bullet wounds inflicted with happy cruelty. A thousand and one angry cuts along her body, but she was intact, unhurt, ready to report back to duty, eager to continue the search for her feigned missing memories. Eric was constantly at her side, squeezing her hand as she explained her absence under the harsh lights of the debriefing room, under the horrified stare of her loved ones. When Vaughn called out for her she nearly snapped. She released her hold on Eric and stepped aside for the others to pass.

"Syd, I was so scared," he whispered.

Nothing she could do. She'd hurt him unintentionally, betrayed him in every way, though he was oblivious. She quieted him with a "Shhh", and pulled him into a tight embrace.

Across the room, Lauren stiffened, but Sydney chastely held the man they both loved as he fought despair and relief.

"I'm so sorry," she told him, but he shook his head. Released her, smiled at her, ran a hand along her cheek and tucked her hair behind her ear.

"You never have to apologize to me, Syd," he explained.

Black terror, rising to her chest. No, no, not love. Not friendship. Not forgiveness. She couldn't withstand his kindness.

With effort she avoided his gaze, focused forcefully on Lauren, plastered a smile on her face and moved forward. "Lauren," she began.

"Sydney. I'm so glad your safe," the blonde acknowledged.

An awkward hug. After an uncertain moment, "Eric told me you found a second copy of the Lazarey tape."

Lauren nodded, clenching her jaw. "You're secret's safe with me, Sydney."

"I know." A genuine smile now. Liked or not, Sydney respected her. "Thank you so much -" she lowered her voice - "for everything."

Confused, Lauren watched her imagined rival warily.

Just out of hearing, Vaughn watched from the doorway, curious and cautious.

"I never said thank you," Sydney whispered. "For taking care of Vaughn. Thank you for - for saving him. He's not mine anymore, but at least he's alive." A wry, mirthless grin. "I've almost killed him twice, once figuratively and once literally. I'm so thankful that he found you, Lauren. Sure, I hate you for stealing my boyfriend, but still..."

A morbid joke. Lauren smiled, laughed, nodded at the taller woman and acknowledged that, though very different, they were both on the same side.

"You're very welcome, Sydney. Believe me,"

A pat on the shoulder, a bright smile shared, and Lauren moved away. After one last glance Vaughn escorted her out. Sydney exhaled through her teeth, the smile dropped, and she bit her tongue to battle tears.

Repairing bridges. Much harder when you're content to watch them burn.

"Did I really just see that?"

Eric, standing in the doorway, the same spot Vaughn had stood moments ago. He was grinning, at first, and instantly went to her side when he saw her distress.

"Just take me home," Sydney groaned.

-

He caught them in the parking lot. Weiss had just closed her door and was moving to the driver's side when he tapped her window. She met his eyes with a flurry of emotion - happiness, fright, relief, reproach. Steeling herself, she stepped onto the pavement and sunk her face into the stiff cashmere folds of her father's coat.

"Sydney -" he began, but she shook her head. After a prolonged moment, she stepped out of his embrace.

"I love you too, Dad," she murmured, and climbed back into the car.

Weiss offered a slight wave to Jack as he steered the Mercedes into the street.

Secure behind the black-tinted windows of today's vehicle of choice, Sark watched in amusement. He'd left off being good in the first place partly because it left too much conflict.

Partly.

-

"'A large rose-tree stood near the entrance of the garden: the roses growing on it were white, but there were three gardeners at it, busily painting them red. Alice thought this a very curious thing, and she went nearer to watch them, and, just as she came up to them, she heard one of them say Look out now, Five! Don't go splashing paint over me like that!'

I couldn't help it,' said Five, in a sulky tone. Seven jogged my elbow.'

On which Seven looked up and said That's right, Five! Always lay the blame on others!'

You'd better not talk!' said Five. I heard the Queen say only yesterday you deserved to be beheaded.'"

Her mother hadn't read it with voices. Sydney had insisted. She'd loved the sound of her mother's voice, so smooth, so precise, cool and flawless like summer rain.

Eric read it loud, bombastic, with energy and feeling and desperation to make her smile.

Outside it didn't feel like winter. The air was cold and still, the rain thick and hot, falling straight to the ground unimpeded by the dead wind. A week had gone by and life had stopped. Waiting for a conclusion.

"Yes, it is his business!' said Five. And I'll tell him - it was for bringing the cook tulip-roots instead of onions.'


Seven flung down his brush, and had just begun Well, of all the unjust things -' when his eye chanced to fall upon Alice, as she stood watching them, and he checked himself suddenly: the others looked round also, and all of them bowed low.


Would you tell me, please,' said Alice, a little timidly, why you are painting those roses?'"

With one hand Eric answered the ringing cordless phone, finishing his sentence before turning his attention to the caller. Idly Sydney turned and again stared out the fogged window, unconsciously searching for the vigilant, blackened guardian watching, hidden, over her.

Dimly she became aware of Eric, listening closely to the person on the other end while muttering in admirable obscurity. He nodded once, gestured insignificantly, dropped the book onto the floor and ran his fingers through his hair. Instantly Sydney rose off the couch, shedding her quilted blanket, and sat on the arm of his chair.

"Mike's in the hospital again," he explained, hanging up the phone. "He's been having trouble lately. It hasn't been healing as well as expected."

'It'. The knife wound Sydney inflicted that wretched night in Ibiza.

Eric was suddenly avoiding her gaze. Inspecting the wall, the carpet, the insignificant watercolor painting they'd purchased together as a housewarming gift to themselves. "There was some minor damage to the lung that went undetected for several weeks. He collapsed at work the day you disappeared. He's back in rehab, but he refused to take time off until they found you."

Desperate for a distraction, Eric set the phone on the coffee table with aching slowness. "Listen, Syd," he whispered. "I'll believe you. Tell me it was for your protection and I'll believe you."

She couldn't answer. Barely understood and didn't want him to explain.

"Tell me you didn't try to kill him in cold blood and I'll believe you. Tell me you didn't decide to kill the man you thought was a traitor." He was struggling to remain calm, struggling to breathe, to look her in the eye and see her as pure and good as ever she was. "Tell me... tell me you didn't stick that blade in Vaughn with the intention of snuffing out a Covenant operative."

She grabbed his arm. She didn't know, couldn't tell him.

"Damnit Syd, tell me it was Julia! Tell me that bastard Walker messed you up, made you stop fighting the Covenant programming for a minute. Tell me... God, Syd, tell me you didn't want to kill Mike."

Begging. He met her eyes and begged her to be the person he thought she was.

"I..," Her lips were dry, her throat aching, the acrid taste of tears burning her eyes. "Eric -"

With a jerking, stumbling movement he seized hold of her hand, squeezed it tightly, and waited for an unwanted answer.

Sometimes lying was easier than breathing.

"Simon would have killed him. It was so hard, Eric. Sometimes I hated him but I loved him, too. You have to understand. He thought - he thought I could do it. He thought I was like him. Yes, I tried to kill Vaughn." She couldn't loose her only friend. "But I couldn't. I'm not... I'm not like Simon, Eric. I thought he'd betrayed me, but I could never kill Vaughn."

He held her gaze, ran fingers along her abused face, offered a slow smile. "I know that, Syd. I always knew that."

Torn, shattered. She painted a matching smile on her lips and accepted his friendly embrace. No, Eric didn't know. He only saw the person she was desperate to become again.

-

He insisted on finishing the book. He read it aloud, in a creaking, laughing tone, gesturing farcically, jostling against her while she rested against his shoulder. Years of training kept her alive that dark afternoon; No, she wasn't happy, not now, but Eric needed her to be. She smiled for him and crumbled inside.

"Wake up, Alice dear!' said her sister. Why, what a long sleep you've had!'"

Sleep. Alluring and repellant. What would meet her when she finally closed her eyes?

-

Across the lawn, hidden in a deep patch of willow fern. Degrading, to be sure, but pride was useless on the job.

Keeping his free hand on the trigger, Sark listened with one ear to his contact calling him from Ontario.

With an efficient snap he put away the cell phone, replacing the sighter lens against his cheek. Ryden was on his way.

-

Dinnertime. Eric talked loudly in the kitchen, making a mess, stirring spaghetti noodles as Carrie looked on in amusement. In the living room, Vaughn relaxed in an armchair, looking pale and determined, insisting he was fine to Lauren, hovering beside him. Jack seated nearby, ignoring Marshall as he babbled indiscernibly about his upcoming parenthood. Dixon left a message on the answering machine, leaving his regrets at his absence. His daughter was ill with the flu.

The faded sun sank through the continual rain.

Sydney rose from her seat beside the fireplace, offered a slight, dismissive wave to the questioning looks of her guests, and walked out the front door. Down the sidewalk, through the winding, suburban neighborhood. No direction. Through the empty, leaf-scattered streets, through hazy rain plastering her hair to her face, soaking her clothes, going unnoticed.

She stopped abruptly. She'd never been this far before, never had an inclination to view the quiet brick houses, the tiny scenic parks cut out between homes. She stopped in the empty road, everything green around her, cold and hot at the same time, warm rain beating upon her protectively.

"Where are you?"

Sydney looked around her, turned in a full circle, scanned the canny shrubbery overgrowing along the quaint white fences.

"I know you're there, Julian. Where are you?"

Silence for a moment. She didn't call for him again, but continued searching through the dense, flowered foliage.

A faint touch on her shoulder and she spun. Her rifle over his shoulder, dressed in black, looking weary from many nights without sleep. She'd been in L.A. for 6 days without any sign of Ryden. Sark looked down at her without any trace of his usual insolent smirk.

All at once she could breathe.

"I'm not -" she faltered, "I'm not either one."

He was close, inches away, his skin cool and damp. He nodded, once, then brushed away the clinging hair streaking her face with a slow, clumsy hand.

They stood at a standoff, watching each other warily, two injured animals locked together in a cage. Scorching raindrops, all around them.

"You don't owe them anything," he told her abruptly. "Nothing."

She nodded softly, turning away from him and walking carefully toward home. She didn't look back; she knew he was there.

-

"Thank you for meeting with me on such short notice."

She hid a sarcastic laugh. Ironic, really, that this man should cause so much trouble when he had the personal charisma of a histrionic mime. Irina absently waved him into a seat.

"I'm sure you've heard of my recent run-in with our renegade operatives," he explained, tugging at his ill-advised necktie. "Yeah, well, you know the plan, of course. I want to know the price."

A quirk of her eyebrow, a mask of curiosity. "The price?" she prompted.

"Bloody hell, woman, you know what I mean. I kill your daughter and her little boy toy, what do I do to keep you off my back? What'll I owe you?"

Ryden was a bishop. Deadly, strong, fallible. Sark a rook, Sydney a pawn. Make it across the board and she would be turned to a queen.

"Well?"

She looked up from the smooth tabletop, met his eyes between the distorting lenses of his scratched glasses. A feline smile as she leaned forward.

"Before his miraculous epiphany, Arvin Sloane procured then later disassembled all the pieces of The Telling," she explained to the quieted younger man. "I know the Covenant is in possession of many of them. Find the rest and give them to me. You may keep what you already have."

A snare, an inescapable plot in which Ryden had no choice but to play the fool. He inelegantly offered his hand to shake. "Done."

"'So she sat on, with closed eyes, and half believed herself in Wonderland, though she knew she had but to open them again, and all would change to dull reality-the grass would be only rustling in the wind, and the pool rippling to the waving of the reeds-the rattling teacups would change to tinkling sheep- bells, and the Queen's shrill cries to the voice of the shepherdboy-and the sneeze of the baby, the shriek of the Gryphon, and all the other queer noises, would change (she knew) to the confused clamour of the busy farm-yard-while the lowing of the cattle in the distance would take the place of the Mock Turtle's heavy sobs.'"