Part 13 : Cruise Control
-

It rained. And rained. Between the dreary sheen, it drizzled.

Sark was becoming irrevocably fed up with this sniper business.

Oh, it had its perks. Watching Sydney Bristow 24 hours a day, for one. Watching her brush her teeth at night, weary and nervous, itching to drag back the drape beside the square window cut into the bathroom wall, knowing she never would because he was there for a reason. Watching her open her eyes in the morning, stretch with tantalizing oblivion before she remembered she was never alone and subconsciously tugged at the hem of her T-shirt.

Perks, yes, but dangerous ones. Sark was becoming increasingly infatuated with the illustrious agent, and everyone and their aunt knew that Sydney Bristow was best kept at a distance. The flame that attracted so many inevitably led to a third degree burn.

Truthfully, she'd always fascinated him. Always challenged him, beckoned him to danger - caused most of it, actually. She was like Irina and so much more. The smooth allure of her mother but with the warmth to back it up.

There was very little to do but sit and brood on the matter, he argued, when crouching all day in a patch of Evergreen shrubs.

Movement, on the porch. He brought the rifle up, realigning the sighter. Oh, beautiful. Eric Weiss in boxers and ragged socks. Bending over, nonetheless. The agent retrieved the morning paper and stepped back into the house. Thankful, Sark returned to his vigil of Sydney, seated primly at the kitchen table, eyes half-closed as she threw back a cup of coffee.

Weiss would be talking from the hallway now, reminding her to stay alert, then she would wash her mug, tell him she'd eaten, and dress for work. On cue, her eyes snapped wide and she replied to his comment on the weather. When Weiss next came into view, he was shrugging into a shirt.

"Oh, you'll dress for her, but not for me?" Sark muttered beneath his breath.

Sydney, smiling at something Weiss had said. Sark noticed her smile had been strained lately, stale, her work never done until she closed her bedroom door at night. She'd look out her window for a moment or two, blind but knowing he was there, then she'd shake her head and fall into bed. She was tired. She wanted it done.

-

Sometimes she wondered how they crafted their blindfolds. How they meticulously held their hands over their eyes, refused to let in any light, fooled themselves into thinking that anything was black and white.

"He asked you only about the Covenant?" Dixon this morning, and tomorrow it would be her father. Vaughn on weekends, stopping by to chat with Weiss or calling just to see if everything was A-OK.

"Pretty much. He asked me about my mother, sometimes. Mostly about the Covenant. He was worried that I might remember something that they don't want me to know. Really I think he was just waiting to see if I would crack before he killed me."

Not his style, not at all. Sark was many things, but in no ways patient. In the custody of a vengeful Sark, Sydney would've been dead within a day. Should've been. Though she told a lie, there were certain parallels. In this glass world, one of them should have been dead by now.

"What did you tell him?" Lauren asked from across the table, reading off a printed file. Everyone else was too personal to ask her that.

"Nothing. I gave him nothing," Sydney said flatly, and they smiled. Vaughn, Jack, Marshall, Dixon, Eric - she was their serrated champion. No one could beat her, not even a cold bastard like Sark.

"Nothing? Not even some false information?" Lauren again, doing her job.

Sydney shook her head.

"Did you know at the time where you were being held?" asked Dixon, cautious again. He didn't trust his own shadow these days.

"No. I remembered being knocked out outside my house, then I woke up again strapped to a metal chair. The only person I ever saw was Sark. I think he was working alone." Lifeless, mechanic. She'd told them all this a week ago. Eric listened carefully in case she slipped.

Silent nodding, more pity. Poor Sydney, no memory, a married boyfriend, and now tortured by a homicidal SPECTRE throwback. Poor Sydney. We like her, she's strong. What's for dinner?

"We'll find him, Sydney." Her father this time, looking earnestly at her from around Eric's guarding shoulders. "We'll find Sark, and I swear to you he will regret the day he ever laid eyes on a Bristow."

She's heard this before. She wanted to go home. They thought offering her revenge would help, would give her the support she needed. A lie to keep them happy, and they think they're giving her friendship.

"Sark has been in this game far too long." Now back to Dixon, grave and astute. "It's time he was put into retirement. That man has messed with the CIA long enough."

Fleetingly Sydney considered just how monumentally screwed Sark really was.

"We lost track of him almost immediately after Agent Weiss found you in Manitoba. Our sources say he probably went to Britain, which is generally where the Covenant is run. We'll find him, Sydney, but it'll take some time. Have patience."

Will the real Dr. Phil please stand up, please stand up?

Dixon cleared his throat, jostled his placidly stacked papers. "Also," he began.

Business, now. Time to pay attention. The last bit was just lip service to traumatized Sydney. This was important.

"Things have been unusually quiet of late. With Derevko presumed dead, the Alliance disbanded and the Rambaldi mystery put on hiatus, the only real players have been the Covenant." A sympathetic nod towards Sydney. Three years ago she would have trusted Dixon with the sun. "But even they've died down these past weeks. No operations, no deals that we know of. They're either brewing up something big or deteriorating."

A creep with neon hair and a limp is calling the shots now, what operations would you be running? Sydney forced herself to take a shallow drink of the tepid water ringing the tabletop in front of her.

"We're gathering intel. Until then, keep your eyes open. Dismissed."

She was out of her chair like a shot, flipping shut her papers and heading for the door. Inevitably, Lauren and Vaughn were right behind her, Marshall pressing behind them. She held the door impatiently, applied a grin to her face. They trooped past her, smiling, nodding, eager to step away from the undefined discomfort surrounding their errant friend.

"Sydney."

No, no, no. No one bothered her at her desk. No one dragged her away from her work to offer empty comfort. She idly considered the many imaginative uses for a paperclip as she swiveled in her chair with another extorted smile.

"Hey, Dad. What's up?"

He pulled out a vacated chair, dragged it across to sit beside her. Smiling at her in the way that used to make her feel so safe, before he used it when he told her Simon Walker was no longer a threat. "I wanted to..."

He'd always been lousy with words.

"I love you, Sydney. I realize I don't say it often enough, don't give you the support that you need. But I love you more than anything in this world."

Why does everyone brush her hair behind her ear?

Keep smiling. Keep breathing. In, out. She grasped his hands warmly. "I love you too, Dad." Her throat hurt.

A relieved, muted sigh. "Are you busy tonight? I know Agent Weiss usually cooks for you, but I was hoping we could catch up, perhaps. Talk. I've missed you, sweetheart."

Sydney didn't want a hug. She didn't want to be told how much they missed her. She didn't want TLC every time she walked into the office, didn't want compassionate looks every time they asked her about her missing years, or the weeks supposedly spent being tortured by Sark. She wanted a dark, soundproof room on an uncharted island in the Pacific Ocean.

"I've missed you so much, Dad," she whimpered. Strangled herself with tears because this was Jack Bristow and he couldn't be fooled by feigned meaningful silences. She moved into his expectant arms.

-

"Jesus, Syd, relax. He's your father. He loves you. Even if he does suspect something, he sure as hell won't go to the NSC. Would it really be such a bad thing if he knew all this?"

She froze, halfway through stringing dangling fake diamonds through her ears, stared at him in the reflection of the mirror she stood before. "Yes," she told him. "He can't know, Eric. Trust me, he can't know."

"Why not?" He followed her into her bedroom, stood in the doorway as she fished shoes from her closet.

"It's complicated," she insisted. "Black or red?"

"Red. Why not?"

"Because he's still in love with my mother. Sandals or ankle straps?"

"Hell, I don't know, Vaughn's the fashion guru. What does your mother have to do with telling Jack where you've been the last 2 years?"

"Because he'd want to know why she helped the Covenant, resulting in A) her seeking reconciliation between us, or B) her somehow furthering her as-of-yet unknown plan for world domination inevitably involving me as a guinea pig for Rambaldi's newest self-help contraption." Shoes, bracelets, earrings, purse. She headed to the door with Eric in her wake.

"Sydney, listen -" he began.

The Bristow Women Look. One of the few things she shared with her mother. 'I love you and I know your worried, but shut your trap, angel.' She kissed him on the cheek and moved down the entry hall.

"I won't be back 'til late. Say 'hi' to Vaughn for me, okay?" she called over her shoulder, tugging open the door.

First she noticed the shadow; a large, irregular form blotting out the overhead light on the stoop. The pistol, a polished Colt aimed at her heart, held by a rough hand gripping the handle too tightly for perfect accuracy. The face, a haunted, grinning face blurred by the surrounding light.

"Hey there, Julia," Ryden proclaimed.

A single bullet, blood spattering across Sydney's face. Ryden crumpled onto the Welcome mat.

Process, compartmentalize, act. She sprang forward before Ryden even hit the floor and snatched up his firearm. Gunman's stance, pistol at arm's length with her free hand on the trigger guard, scanning right to left.

"It's clear. Weiss, go check the back." Sark, half-concealed in the Evergreens separating the property from their neighbor's.

"Go," Sydney urged when Eric hesitated, lowering the Colt. With a warning glance at Sark, Eric disappeared into the house.

"It's done," Sark murmured, stepping onto the porch. Absently he locked the Dakota rifle.

Focus. Don't think. Get it done. "You'll take the body?"

Nodded. He crouched and pulled Ryden up, settling the corpse onto his shoulders without any outward signs of discomfort.

He let out an abrupt laugh.

"Cheerio, then,"

Unwillingly, a chagrined smirk twisted Sydney's lips. "What, no goodbye kiss?" she asked wryly.

At once she knew she'd said the wrong thing. That the way his eyes ran over her was anything but businesslike.

He stepped forward and, with the cuff of his sleeve, lightly wiped away Ryden's blood streaked across her face.

"You're beautiful," he said, gesturing to her expensive outfit, the dramatic sweep of her hair, the bloodied necklace she hadn't worn since Danny had given it to her on Valentine's Day so many years back. He added, "A red dress is a good investment for our line of work."

A grim laugh shared. This was the end of their truce, their companionship. The next time she saw him she'd be kicking his ass over some useless computer disk.

"The CIA is out for your blood. They'll make you pay for kidnapping me."

"I suppose so," Sark observed. "It's nice to know it takes roughing up one of their agents to get the Central Intelligence Agency pissed off at a wanted terrorist."

"Dad's got a new vendetta. He doesn't play nice."

"No, I suspect he doesn't." There was nothing left to say.

"Au revoir, ma tueur doux," he told her. French. They'd never speak that language again without the unavoidable memory of Etrelles. "I'll see you in Chicago."

"What?"

He shrugged. And smirked.

She shook her head softly, and he turned away; offered a slight wave as he slunk into the night, leaden with the dead body of Finn Ryden. He heard her close the door, but didn't bother to look back. Ma tueur doux. My sweet killer.

-

She seems dressed in all the rings
Of past fatalaties -
so fragile yet so devious.
She continues to see it,
Climatic hands that press
her temples and my chest.
Enter the night that she came home
Forever.

(Vermillion, Slipknot)

-

"Not hungry?"

Exhausted. Wary. Afraid of her own skin.

"I'm fine. Just a little tired."

"That's understandable."

She nodded, pushing her pasta around her plate.

He settled back against his chair, his arms resting on the tabletop. He observed her while she held a vicious staring match with her dinner. Around them, families chattered, warmed the expensive Italian restaurant with laughter, leaving them isolated.

She couldn't stand his smile. The small, proud grin he got whenever he saw her nowadays. Jack had only discovered how remarkable his daughter was just when she'd begun hating him.

Hate, love, anger, sympathy toward her father. Sydney didn't want his love now. She didn't want faux hugs and soothing words. She wanted a Ruger and a lineup of all the middle-aged flyboys who'd screwed up her life so unanimously.

"I know you're hurting, Sydney."

Process, compartmentalize, act. It'd become her personal mantra of late. She dragged her gaze up to meet Jack's eyes.

"I want you to know I'm sorry."

The taste of sour pasta in the back of her throat. "For what?"

"Everything. For letting you go."

One sentence and suddenly it didn't matter anymore. She took one look at the remorse written across his exhausted features, and none of it mattered anymore.

He'd killed Simon. He'd cut her off as a child. He hadn't been there when she needed him most. He was the only parent she had.

"Oh, Daddy." Her voice was jagged.

He nodded quietly, silencing her. He understood. There were lies on top of secrets beneath the deceit that made up their lives, but simple love could be based on truth. She could hate him, and despise him, and distrust everything he did, and she could forgive him.

No tears. Show no weakness. The two remaining Bristows smiled at each other from across the cluttered candle-lit table.